In the words of James(the band not the person): “come home, come home"

When we first hatched this plan, I was disappointed that we would miss our 10 year Stanford reunion and miss our friends and family too much. Andrew, it a moment of excitement, and trying to assuage my fears of the long trip, suggested we plan a visit back home around reunion time. All my college friends are flying in for reunion, and that way we could visit folks, repack and generally get caught up. While planning the first 2.5 months of our trip I thought this was a brilliant idea. I was so much more calm knowing I could repack, restock and fix mistakes in October. When I couldn’t see my dentist in August I didn’t worry, I could see her in October. When the UC system set our bizarre retirement vesting rules that threaten to delete my retirement savings, I realized I could deal with it in October. When I worried about my hair getting so long it would take over the earth, I consoled myself that I had October. When I worried I was going to miss my friends and family, again, October to save the day.

Now, however, sitting on the airplane, at hour 27.5 of traveling out of a total of 38 (one way, that is only one way) I am thinking maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Andrew is totally sure it wasn’t such a good idea. (he loves you all of course, but I think he would much prefer you come to him). Of course, Andrew doesn’t need to get his hair cut, and unlike me, he is not going to learn how to dance like a stripper while we are home. (you are just going to have to ask me about that one in person)

Transport so far to get home

1. Walk to subway
2. Subway
3. Train (missed the first train because my ticket was “too long”: the machine miscut it and then the next machine would not accept it and then a nice maintenance man took pity saying over and over “longo”, so eventually I got in, but we had to wait for the next train)
4. Airport shuttle
5. Airplane (Easyjet! With fears of Milan-wide airport shutdown hanging over our heads)
6. Hotel shuttle (in Brussels, no that is not true, now we were kinda near the Brussels airport, but too far to get into town and see anything or eat, so airport hotel dinner it was)
7. Hotel shuttle again (I did sleep in the hotel at the Brussels airport. The room may have filled with cigarette smoke in the morning, but I did sleep)
8. Airplane again (Did you know that booze is no longer free on United international flights? This is probably good. Free drinks on planes are always too much of a temptation. $6 for bad white wine, however, is less of a draw. )
9. Shuttle train
10. Airplane again again (I have been promised a Bloody Mary (but no baby) in Chicago. Hope we have time)
11. Airtran
12. Car

What were we thinking?

Bologna to Milan:

The morning after our Bologna cooking class we were still stuffed. We spent the morning in San Stefano, a complex of 7 churches that had grown since the IVth century. The oldest church felt very plain and ancient, the newest chapel honoring air force pilots, felt very mid-century filled with pictures of WWI and WWII Bolognese men (they actually look like everyone’s grandfather’s WWII picture) with big smiles and uniforms.

Since we didn’t want to eat any more, it was time to leave Bologna and go Milan. Andrew visited Milan 8 years ago before we started dating. He was in the area for work for 3 weeks and then took a few days on his own to explore Milan. It was then that he bought me this amazing orange glass necklace. Before then we had just been hanging out as friends, but when a man brings you an orange art necklace from Milan, the relationship is bound to change.

Eight years ago Andrew loved Milan, and he has been regaling me with stories of its fashionable men in their red pants and pointy shoes ever since. We stayed in an apartment we rented on airbnb. It’s a website where normal Joes can post rooms and apartments for short term rent. I think of it as a large step above couch surfing websites. We had a “loft” (if you can hit your head on the ceiling while climbing into bed is it truly a loft or merely a room with a tall ceiling and a tall bed?) in a hip district with a canal. Alas, the canals have been drained for maintenance, so it was less romantic than it could have been. In fact, the canals were really a bit sad. Just empty tunnels of mud though the neighborhood. After the rain, some ducks pathetically tried to swim in the small amount of water that collected in the bottom.

There were also a set of very sad cafe barges tied to the side of the canal and grounded in the mud. They still advertised dinners on the water, but it didn’t look like they had been serving for a long time.

Milan’s Duomo is one of the most famous, picturesque and grand churches in Italy. It looks like a very large version of the drip castles I made at the beach as a child. Our first day in town was raining, yet the Duomo was stunning in the rain. It was also stunning a few days later in the sun. I looked through the free city guide we got at the tourist office and found a walk through the city that seemed like an excellent introduction. My tourist planning skills were not at tip-top form, however. Our first full day in Milan was a rainy Sunday. I was just so excited to get out and see the city (and those men in red pants) that I didn’t think though some important facts. 1. It is raining and thus not super fun walking weather 2. It is a Sunday, so fashionable people are at home eating their fashionable Sunday lunches with their fashionable families (or maybe their mistresses now that I think about it, it is Italy) and not out on the mostly closed fashionable shopping streets 3. Museums tend to be closed on Mondays. In short we had a lovely, if wet, walk around fashionable Milan on Sunday (no men in red pants); another, now not wet, on Monday when we couldn’t get into any museums; and another on Tuesday when yet again the museum we really wanted to go to was closed. I should admit we didn’t even try to get into to see the “Last Supper“. From what we could see online, the tickets for viewing the fresco in January 2011 were available, but not a lot of hope for earlier times. Milan is a grand city and worthy of a 3 day walking tour and on Monday (still no red pants) we visited the castle (museums closed) and surrounding parks. We also toured several churches (we discovered churches from the 5th century hold particular sway with us.) On our last morning we visited the Pinacoteca Ambrosiana. The tour book explained that this pinocateca had Botticellis, Titians and Leonardos. I am a huge sucker for a Botticelli and the red-head love from Titian always make me happy. We were, and are, deeply sick of pictures of the Madonna and child, dead jesus in a variety of forms and dead saints (Andrew pointed out: poor St Sebastian, can’t ever catch a break, always stuck through with those arrows). Praise be the day someone thought about painting a different picture. The pinocateca had only one Botticelli: a Madonna and child and while it was nice, it was not very different from the 100s of Madonna and child paintings we have seen so far in Italy. When I was in Florence as a teenager I remember getting a slight panic attack in the Uffizi -- I had worshiped the Botticellis already and now I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t find the exit and I was trapped in gallery after gallery of Madonna and Child. This memory has tainted my experience of art so far on this trip.
It is really hard to avoid rooms and rooms of Madonnas and babies in a Italian museum. The pinocateca also had a lovely Leonardo. I missed the Titian. The building however was phenomenal. I had my heart set on going to the “Italian words for moving Da Vinci” museum. Of course, not being the best planner, we were busy walking in the rain on the one day it was open while we were in Milan. In my defense, the book said it would be open Tuesday, but the book was wrong. So no constructions of De Vinci’s drawings for us. We did get to see a lot of his drawing of catapults at the pinocateca, but that’s not exactly comparable.

My parents had a friend they met when they were traveling around Europe who said, “you have to buy your way into a town.” That is certainly true in Milan. Our first few meals were over priced and a little disappointing. One was at a restaurant in our hip neighborhood that was jammed with hip young people, so jammed, in fact, that said hip young people kept the door open and it was cold and crazy. The next day we paid way too much for a plate of cold (but cooked) veggies - but at that moment the only thing in the world I wanted was a plate of cooked veggies, (and not more cured pork product) so it seemed worth it. When we finally found a place that was good value and good food we went back. If anyone wants a recommendation for a lovely little place in Milan, let me know, I have just the place for you. (the Chef kissed me we when we left the second time, he has my heart forever. His words: “May I kiss you? I don‘t want to kiss him. I like kissing girls.”) Actually, I have a place for both lunch and dinner. We had lunch the last two days at a lunch counter type place where you share your table and folks come in groups from both work and the nearby catholic university. The food was good and it was so cheap and friendly (and no one was speaking English). When I think about what food I could get at our lunch place for the price of those cooked vegetables I sigh. And, on top of that the waitress at the lunch place calls everyone “love” (in Italian, of course) and when she really likes men, she kisses them. Andrew got a kiss on our last day. By the way, our last day in Milan we finally saw men, not just one man, but two men, wearing bright red pants. My trip’s dreams were completed.

Andrew fell in love with Bologna right away. From them minute we stepped out of our apartment he was glowing. Having not slept for the three nights previous, I was a little slower to declare my admiration. Bologna is famous for several things: Rose colored buildings with porticos (this makes it an ideal city for the rain), the oldest University in Europe (80,000 students are a powerful force), radical politics (maybe related to those 80,000 students?) and really, really good food.We spent 3 days walking through the porticos, taking in the occasional museum and eating. We went to the Osteria D'Orsa, famous student digs of a restaurant, twice, once sitting with a Sardinian economist and his Romanian companion.

On the fourth day we took a cooking class with an opinionated, but extremely well informed teacher who said things like, “This deli is awful, just for tourists taking pictures, look at how poorly the cheese is cut.” She took us on a tour of the market introducing us to her brilliant but temperamental butcher (a genius, but he has these little “fits”), explaining what is wrong with produce today (everything is the same and a clone, solution, eat the varieties that still look weird), how to pick fish (stiff with rigor mortis) and feeding us an amazing variety of cured meat(the bresaola of foal was phenomenal).

Inside the only deli our teacher approved of. If you go to Bologna, drop me a note and I will send you the name, directions and a picture so you can find it. It is worth it.

After we bought the food for our meal we went to her apartment where we learned how to make homemade stuffed pasta and real proper ragu (did you know you are not supposed to see the vegetables?)

We also made meat rolls (with mortadella and a mortadella/spinach/parmigiano mixture) and a stuffed peach dessert. We left exhausted (true Italian pasta making, the kind that starts with mixing the egg with a knife and ends with endless rolling is hard work), and stuffed at 4:30. We had to nap and it wasn’t until about 9:30 that we were ready to think about eating again.

Andrew really loved his pasta

A quick look at Bologna

Note the signature Bologna porticoes and rose colored buildings

Quick look at Bologna from Kate Bedford on Vimeo.

Be polite, boys and girls

Written Monday, October 12

Cinque Terre is lovely. The 4 km hike we went on yesterday was by far the best of my life. I should say, not being a big hiker, this is a small sample, but unlike other hikes, I just wanted to keep walking, even though it was hard and up and then precariously down. In fact after lunch I found myself running up the many, many stairs to the church above the town. I never planned on running up them, I was a bit surprised. Andrew was very surprised, especially since running hills after me is not usually part of his husbandly duties. When I was almost to the top I thought, “well this ticker cost a lot, lets take it for a spin.” the church was worth the effort, as was the view.

Visiting Cinque Terre, however lovely, is not visiting Italy. Just as visiting Club Med Puerto Vallarta does not mean you have visited Mexico, a trip to Cinque Terre is not Italy. It most reminds me of Stanford Sierra Camp. Extremely happy, dare I say, blissed-out travelers of the same ethic background and socio-economic status, and lots of Northface gear. Like camp, no one stays too long, and no one really lives here. Last night at dinner every table was American. Lovely food, and the service was shockingly good considering he had to deal with a bunch of us.

I have been embarrassed by my people in the last few days. Americans are not a quiet people, though neither are Italians, so that is not so noticeable. (I am sure the woman from Omaha who sat across the restaurant from us last night is a lovely person, I just had the opportunity to learn a bit more about her then I wanted given that she was sitting on the other side of the room) Americans are also not use to living near each other, so we think it is OK to speak at full volume at 10:30pm in ancient towns where everyone is smashed together. I found myself wondering what it must be like for the few long time residents left actually living in the town. They grew up here and then at some point in the last 20 or maybe it was 30 years it became summer camp 9 months year. There is not a lot of sleeping time between the last loud American couple talking on the streets (each and every word audible 3 stories up thanks to the power of echoes) and the first clanking of roll-y bags in the morning. We Americans are also an entitled people, generally lacking patience, and that is the source of most of my discomfort. After three days of watching relatively wealthy Americans do their thing, I need to get something off my chest: if I am ever traveling with someone and they say “yoohoo” at a waiter in a restaurant, or use their pointer finger to beckon a waiter, I will, with love, leave them at the next train station. I mean it.

Cinque Terre

Cinque Terre is a collection of 5 (thus the cinque) pedestrian only towns perched on the edge of the Mediterranean. But you knew that: this was the first time since leaving SFO that we were completely surrounded by Americans almost all of the time. The towns are linked via roads that connect to their rears, trains, ferries, and a set of marvelous trails that run through the Cinque Terre national park in and out of the towns. The trails and the boats were the only means of transport until the 20th century.

We walked three of the four primary connecting trails (we tried to ignore the ‘closed’ sign at the head of the trail from Corniglia to Manorolo, but then when we came to the locked rusted iron gate, we decided that we would play by the rules.) One of the things that you learn about these trails is that the presence or absence of a No High Heels sign means something very important. Where they are allowed, the trail is completely flat, paved, and dotted (rather dashed) with benches from which a well dressed lady (or cross dresser) could rest their weary feet and stare at the Mediterranean.

Where they are not allowed, the trail primarily consists of crazy steep narrow stairs and ledges, one-person-at-a-time-or-you-both-go-falling-off-a-cliff-kind-of-thing. When we first saw the estimated 1.5 hour time for a 4 km trail we thought: ah, they timed it for old folk. We were wrong, they timed it exactly for us, the sheets of sweat we left at various points along the climbs, and the shards of our patellas we left along the descents.

The trails hug the hillsides and weave in and out of terraced vineyards, olive orchards, steep cliffs without much growth at all, and some rare sections with the plant life that nature intended (although one could argue that nature intended Italy to be covered in vineyards and olive trees, and we would most likely be quick to agree). Every now and then, the trail would duck behind someone’s fenced off garden and the aroma of basil would be almost overwhelming. Peaking in we could see beautiful tomatoes, summer squashes, and, of course, grapes and olives.

We crossed paths with many other hikers (this being the thing to do in Cinque Terre, and Cinque Terre being Club Med and all) and they were mostly happy, tired and very friendly. Towards the end of the hard trails, when we were finishing the final descents and passing folk starting their initial climb, Kate would lean over and say: “I’m not optimistic about that group”: folks not quite prepared for how hard the trail actually was. Some with swarms of children, some with wholly improper footwear, some that just looked surly (it is not a trail for surly people). It was always depressing to have to answer the question “Are we almost to the top?”

It’s pretty rewarding to finish a hard hike in a beautiful Italian town with your choice of restaurant, and there to have a nice lunch, some mineral water, and a half liter of wine. With the morning caffe corretto, the evening beer and the dinnertime wine, we’re building up quite a tolerance (and also possibly eroding our livers).

Cinque Terre - first thoughts

Written Saturday Oct 9 evening: Look for more on Cinque Terre soon.

We were worried about going to Cinque Terre. So many people told us it was great that it got us suspicious. Rick Steves (never trust someone with two first names) did a show about the towns. We were pretty sure it was going to be very touristy and yes, yes it is. It is far more touristy than we ever expected. I guess a UNESCO world heritage designation does bring out the crowds. After weeks and weeks without hearing American voices, we are now surrounded by them. This place sounds like the Denver airport on a Thursday afternoon. Here is the thing: Rick Steves said of 5 terra that he had never seen tourists so happy. He is right. The whole region is turned over to them, it is like being in Curry village or Moab, Utah, but they are happy. Enormously, adorably happy. We wandered past groups of American retirees sitting down to dinner, flushed with a good day of hiking and toasting their good fortune at being here and being with each other.

Genoa- Saturday Oct 9

Sunrise over Genoa view from the Ferry Port

We arrived in Genoa at 7.30 in the morning. The ferry sound system had started up at 6.20, with announcement, after announcement, letting all the passengers know that breakfast was now being served at the bar, the caffeteria and the restaurant. In between announcements, just to make sure that you really couldn’t go back to sleep, a speaker in each bathroom started playing really bad music. It was not a promising way to start the day.

One wonderful thing about Italian ferries: the coffee is good, I mean really, really good. And cheap. So the disastrous wakeup was somewhat remedied by a delicious espresso.

Genoa, unlike the other ferry ports we’d been to, has a real, honest-to-goodness ferry terminal, complete with Mcdonalds and a shopping center that wasn’t open yet. We staggered through, and started rolling the bags in the general direction (we hoped) of the train station. It may have been further away than we would have liked, but we did get there. We dropped off the luggage with a taciturn left luggage attendant and ventured forth. Within 10 minutes we were seated in a bar with coffee in front of us and a ham and cheese toast on the way.

We quickly found ourselves touring the Palace Reale, the former home of the influential Durazza family and then bought by the King of Sardinia. It was a masterpiece in gold leaf, historically important frescos and portraits of rich, if homely women. I am always amazed at the subject matter of frescos in stately homes. Do you really want to eat dinner under the rape of [fill in unfortunately mythical Greek female here]? How about retiring to the card room to play under the severed head of medusa? We toured with building with two dimwitted, but enthusiastic Brits and left feeling cultured.

this isn't really in the medieval center, but just outside it. I just this picture best

We then wandered the Genoa’s old medieval center (from the 12th century) and noticed that unlike the old town in Alghero, this space was not catering to or designed for tourists. It was mostly a shopping district with bars. We also found the prostitute section, which I have to admit caught me by surprise. Somewhere along this journey we realized two things: 1. We were really hungry. The day before we had only eaten three ingredients all day: Bread, cured pork and cheese. We wanted something else. 2. It was Saturday and we were near the financial district which meant most lunch places were closed. We began to fear it was going to be pizza again when we saw a sign pointing to a restaurant up a steep alley. We went for it. The first good sign was the sounds wafting down the alley- pots, pans, knives, folks, glasses clinking. The sign on the door said, “Menu Touristic 9 Euro” The tables were all long and communal. The menu was a badly-photo copied version of a handwritten original. Since the first few letters were missing from each item it was totally unreadable even if it were in English. No problem. The waitress read us the whole thing even translating most of it. There was not actually a lot of choice. You WILL get the menu. You WILL eat a primi and a secondi with a side. You WILL get dessert (actually, I am making that part up, desert was a choice, but really, how could you say no?) You will choose from the 5 options for each. There is a house red and a house white wine and water. The place was perfect. We sat next a women eating alone who had a bit of the crazy in her, she talked to her self and her food as well as the man across the way. When all was done: a full meal and wine and water and dessert we rolled out having spent almost nothing. Andrew says it is his new favorite Italian restaurant. If anyone ends up in Genoa, go to “Da Maria” near the Borsa.

After lunch it was time to catch the train to 5 terra (after looking at the prices of food in 5 terra we really longed for our Genoese hole in the wall.)

Accents and tee shirts

1. Like many Americans, I use to hold a stereotype, irrational as most stereotypes are, that people with a British accent are just a little bit smarter than everyone else. This trip has given me ample opportunity to reevaluate that assumption. After 2 months of travel I can say with conviction that I am no longer burdened by that stereotype. This trip has also given me the opportunity to examine my stereotype that Norwegians are lovely warm people (we just spent a day on a boat with 6 more Norwegians + our time traveling in Norway). I am happy to report that stereotype is still firmly intact.

2. The streets of Italy are full of people wearing clothes with English words. Mostly it is just Polo or Abercrombie or some fake rowing club shirt with an American town name. Occasionally though, the English hits at a different level. Some of it reads like the Jinglish we saw throughout Japan (we had to stop taking pictures of all the funny tee shirts in Tokyo or we were never going to get anywhere) and Prague. Our absolute favorite was a teenage girl in Prague wearing a shirt proclaiming: “all our pretty face go to hell.” Out walking today we saw a woman carrying a bag that said, “I want you to love me.” I thought that was very honest of her. On Saturday I asked Andrew to remember the nonsensical words on a woman’s shirt in the old town in Genoa. Alas, he was too sleepy, and it made no sense, so it did not stick in his brain, we think it was something close to “Spring now music movies”. Of course I had to snap the photo at the top of this post. I also think we should “save the mind”, although I am not totally sure what that entails. All of this is really just an excuse to write about the man I saw on the ferry from Sardinia to Genoa. I should say, he looked like a nice guy. He was hanging with his buddies and being polite enough. If it wasn’t for the shirt nothing about him would yell douche. On his shirt were two arrows. One pointed up to his head and was labeled “the man.” The other pointed down to his penis and said, “the legend.”

Alghero Sardinia

The focal point of Alghero, as a tourist, is the old town. Ancient, narrow cobbled streets leading between stone buildings bleached by the sun. The outer bastion runs along the sea, everywhere you turn is another church with a storied past (the church of Sant Uno beautifully demonstrates the architecture of the Jesuit order whose Alghero home it has been for 500 years, the church of Santo Due has been the home of Benedictine monks for centuries, and so on for churches Sant Tre, Quattro, Cinque). The storefronts are restaurants, gelato shops, jewelry stores and souvenir shops. Locals can be found on the back streets, away from the primary tourist thoroughfare. Laundry hangs from lines strung under and between windows. It is quite stunning.

It also didn’t hold our interest for more than a few strolls. The restaurants were good, and a bit pricey. It was nice to sit up on the bastion with a couple of glasses of wine. We’ve been rather lucky with the location of our accommodations on the trip: most often just on the edge of the touristy area, but not in the thick of it. In Alghero, our B&B (loose use of the term) is about 1 km from the tourist area, smack in the middle of a very non-touristy neighborhood. We’ve really enjoyed the location: we’ve become regulars at the bar across the street for breakfast; we’ve found the gay bar with the free wifi; we’re currently sitting in a small lavenderia doing a quick wash bef
ore getting on the bus to Porto Torres.

We originally had planned just two nights for Alghero: we really had no idea how long we wanted to stay in Sardinia. Wandering around the port on the second day we got suckered into signing up for a boat trip two days later (Tuesday‘s trip was full; Wednesday, apparently, is the day of rest). We talked the B&B to extend our stay another two nights and then fell into the following routine until the day of the boat trip: relaxing morning stroll, followed by a stop at a café (port-side or not), then a long lunch, a walk to the beach, renting an umbrella and sun beds, lying out on the beach with our books for a few hours, walk back, shower, bar, internet, and then dinner. Life is hard.

The private beach we went to was called “Magic beach”. Nice red sun beds and ridiculous tiki-looking green fringed umbrellas. With a beer bottle or two sitting on the umbrella table, we looked like we were living a Corona commercial.
The place was run by a jovial man who seemed to truly love his job: hang out on the beach with all the bathing beauties, pat sand off of sun beds, and collect money.

We weren’t sure what to expect from the boat trip. It was expensive and would last all day. It advertised its high trip advisor rating. We predicted that we would be the only people on the boat between the ages of 15 and 55. We brought our books with us, just in case we needed to occupy ourselves.

The trip was absolutely marvelous. The boat, the Andrea Jensen, is a long (I’d say 50-60 foot) wooden sailboat equipped with a powerful engine for the doldrums. The crew was all British: the owners, Vivienne and Geoff, and their mate for the summer, Jack. There were 14 guests on the boat. A few couples that met the over 55 expectation, a family (with two under 15s) and a young couple in their twenties from Dublin. The family and one of the older couples were from Norway, they were delighted to hear that we had been and wanted to know all about it. The Irish couple were having a quick, cheap (Ryanair flies direct from Dublin to Alghero), blast of sun. The only time we lacked for good conversation was while snorkeling, and at the very end, when everyone was sun-tired.

We never needed the books. The first part of the trip, motoring out, was spent enjoying tea and coffee, the sea air in our faces, and the conversation of our fellow guests and the crew. Once we reached a beautiful calm cove on the far side of the cape, well beyond where the standard two hour tour cruises, we snorkeled, swam and swung off the boat. The experience of the whole day is best summarized by the photo Kate posted a few days ago with the caption “best day ever.”

and now for some humor:

I love my chocolate to the orange tree. I love my small cake to the chocolate with warm heart.

Can we make this a rap song?

Best Day Ever

Sassari

(slightly random post written by both of us, points if you can tell when Andrew took over the computer, we haven't been able to download, and then upload our Sassari pics, so here is another one stole from the web)

Sassari is an inland town on Sardinia. It has a university and an ancient walled city and a lot of Sardinian pride. Once again we found ourselves in a region clamoring for independence. Between Basque country, Corsica and Sardinia, we are gathering quiet a collection of secessionist graffiti. Since Sassari is inland, it not a place to go for a beach vacation and thus does not have many tourists. It really doesn’t have many Americans. The clerk at our hotel couldn’t read our California driver licenses even though he spoke English really well. Instead, he had to call up to ask us our dates of birth. Later he explained he had just never seen ID documents like that before. The waitress at the restaurant was excited to speak in English to us, I got the sense she didn‘t have a lot of opportunity to normally.. She was also intrigued that we were Americans. She said what everyone says when we say where we are from: “you are far from home.” Yes, yes we are.

It was driving from the Sassari bus station to our hotel that I had my first feeling of being somewhere really foreign. A police officer was stopping traffic in front of the church so elderly couples dressed all in black could walk in peace to Sunday night services. It suddenly hit me, I am somewhere very different from home right now. This feeling continued. Sassari is hot and feels almost tropical even though it is a European City built of stone and cement. Cockroaches crawled across the sidewalk as we walked home from dinner. The old city is a warren of tiny alleys and small shops, none of them selling postcards.

We rested on benches under palm trees next to the duomo. Unlike San Sebastian, the bells were in tune. It was noon and we were thirsty (the heavy, muggy air got to us) and hungry. We dropped into a café on one of the large piazzas. Being only noon (Sardinians don’t really sit down to eat lunch til one or two) they were a little confused by us, but realized that serving us the food they had ready would only increase their margins for the day. We drank 3 liters of water (we had forgotten to concentrate on our 3 C’s). The simple lunch they served us was composed of chicken scallopini, and roasted BITTER greens. It was delicious. We felt a little better about our early lunch when another couple came in to eat around 12:30. While picking up our luggage at the hotel later, we realized, to our dismay, that they, too, were not residents of Sassari.

A quick, easy taxi ride to the bus station. Then a bit of mayhem as we attempted to figure out which of the many buses stopping at our particular stall was the one for Alghero. One of the drivers I had asked took pity on us and told us exactly when that bus would pull in. Sardinians don’t queue up like Northern Europeans, they bunched and jostled around the bus door like good ole’ San Franciscans, we felt at home (although the patient, courteous drivers were out of place). Bags stowed, we got on the bus, the bus pulled away and it immediately rained the rain that had been predicted. For 2 minutes. Then it was done.

Damn Italian Beds

I am a persnickety sleeper. There is a bit of princess and the pea in me. Ever since that whole cracking my chest open experience I have needed several pillows and a soft bed to get a good nights sleep. This made Japan miserable since there is no bed in Japan that is soft. It has also meant that my nights have been a bit hit or miss on the trip. Some places work. A lot don’t. Our stay in Corsica was glorious partly because I could catch up on weeks of bad sleep. It appears however that Italy will not be so good to me. With a sample size of 3 I am coming to the sad conclusion that Italian are hard bed people. (maybe if other parts of life are nice it is important to inject 8+ hours of mystery into your day) Our current B&B boasts of “Orthopedic Beds.” Orthopedic my ass. Or more specifically I would like to beat whatever orthopedist thought these beds were a good idea. I have to admit, they are uniformly hard, no lumps or bumps like we have found many places, but I think they achieved this by placing a piece of plywood over the mattress and calling it a day.

The Pros and Cons of bus trips:

Castelsardo, a town I would have missed if not for traveling on a bus

I think how one feels about bus trips is directly related to how nauseous one gets on a bus. After several winding trips through Corsican mountain towns Andrew would discuss the beatify of the ride; the country, the mountains, the small towns we would never see on our own, the adventure. I would discuss how soon until I could drink 7 up, bubbly water, beer, anything to stop the roiling.

I sit next to him, ipod firmly planted in my ears, eyes closed, singing along just slightly and counting the minute until we get off. He stares out the window. The bus twists and turns. I look at the clock and notice that is 3 minutes later then the last time I looked at the clock. Andrew nudges me to look at some town, or cliff or river. I look, I think, wow that is beautiful, what a beautiful ride, what a beautiful place, I am so glad I am here, I jut wish I wasn’t moving.

Buses also do not take a direct route. This is part of their charm of course. We pass though and stop in little towns well off the beaten path. A few days ago I looked up and we were in a medieval town with flag strung up between buildings and hordes of young people sitting in cafes along the main road. Yet, it also means that a relatively short ride, say 48 km as the case maybe, can take hours. We zoom right pass the large turn offs towards our destination and instead drive in what feels like the opposite direction towards some small encampment where we have a stop. This gets less charming as I get more sick

I should say I really don’t have much room to complain here. These are nice buses. This is nothing like the bus I road on it Mozambique that was missing parts of the floor and roof. (funny, I don’t remember getting nauseous on that bus, maybe it was traveling in a straight line? Maybe it didn’t go fast enough to make me sick? I know, I was younger and everything was easier) These are new, comfortable, air-conditioned buses with nice shock systems and courteous professional drivers, almost always. In fact, the driver on our bus into Sisarri called a cab for us, and tracked it down when one failed to show up.

In Corsica we had one long ride I was a bit worried about, I thought I would be horribly nauseous for sure, so we sat right up in front so I could “drive along” with the driver and try to trick my brain into good behavior. This plan failed spectacularly. This particular driver drover like a bat out of hell. He tail-gated and honked at other large buses until they would pull over and let him pass. He tail-gated some small cars so closely that from the front of the bus we could not see anything but their front roof portion of the car. Riding along on this particular ride was an older assistant who had smoked several packs a day since the age of 4. We knew a stop was coming because the assistant would pull out a cigarette and just suck on it for a bit in preparation. The assistant helped manage the passengers and sell tickets. He also helped by singing along loudly to the bus music and goading the driver to faster and faster speeds. Right at the moment any sane woman would say, “honey, slow down, I think you have made the poor bastard in the car in front of you wet his pants,” the assistant would start umm, expressing his displeasure at the slow speed of the driver in front. He would cheer when the bus finally got past whatever was slowing it down. Please note: we were driving on mountain roads. It was like driving in Tahoe or Sequoia with bits of the curvy part of highway 1 tossed in. These were not roads I would normally think of as passing roads, much less passing roads when you are a very large bus. The upshot of this experience was that every time I opened my eyes and tried to “Drive along” with the bus I was terrified. I explained to Andrew that since every moment my eyes were open the bus driver was doing something dangerous and stupid, we would all be safer if I kept my eyes closed.

Adolescents

(Written Oct 2 while watching, you guessed it, adolescents in Santa Teresa di Gallura)

Andrew and I have now observed adolescents together in 8 countries (I actually had a homework assignment in grad school that required observing adolescents in their natural environment, Andrew came a long to help. This was in LA, which I guess is kind of its own country. I was counting: USA, France, Czech Republic, Japan, Norway, Netherlands, Spain, Italy)

Eight seems like a big enough sample to make a couple generalizations:

• Most adolescent boys need a haircut
• Adolescent girls work much harder on their appearance then adolescent boys
• Adolescent boys in groups mostly stand around punching each other

One more …I didn’t pay as much attention to this last one in every country, but so far in Italy and everywhere we looked in Japan adolescent boys are MUCH MUCH taller then people their grandparent’s age. We just watched this young man talking to someone is grandma’s age (maybe even a big older) and tower over her. I thought wow, he really is taller then her, guess there is some benefit to not being a kid during a war. Then Andrew whispered, “Kate look, she is standing on the curb.” So he towered over her even when she had 7 inches of help.

Santa Teresa di Gallura

(written on Saturday Oct 2)

Pia, the ever fashionable proprietor of the wine cellar cum vacation rental we have been staying in the last week came to check us out and drive us to the bus today. She asked about where we were going next and we gave her a quick itinerary, at least as far as we know: Ferry to Sardinia landing in the town of Santa Teresa di Gallura for a night, then a bus to Sassari and one night there followed by two nights in Alghero. Pia listened and then looked concerned. She said, “but you must understand, Santa Teresa, there is nothing there.” We assured her that we were only there for one night and would be fine. I will grant her that it was a sleepy town, but it is in a strikingly beautiful location and full of people, good food and lovely beaches and hiking spots. We keep walking around saying to each other, "nothing huh" as we saw another vista or wondered another cute street.

We are staying in a B&B run by a young couple. She teaches Italian to Americans in Rome during the off season. She was excited we were American, she smiled when she saw Andrew’s driver license and said, “oh your American you are only the second ones” We said “in the house today?” She said, “no all year, you are only the second Americans all year.” Then we talked about the difference between American English (easy to understand) and British English (hard to understand). The house is her grandmother’s grandmother’s and it is colorful and filled with pictures of her family, both recent and very old. Ian would have to duck to get through many of the doors. Our room has 2 balconies onto the Piazza which is really charming right now-- it might be less charming at bedtime, we shall see. The husband reminded us of Donato (Andrew’s cousin Courtnay’s husband) he is tall, lanky and has long dreadlocks. He is a bartender and answered all of Andrew’s questions about local drinks. He even gave us a sample of homemade Mirto, a liquor made from a berry of a local tree, one of which is growing on our balcony.

As the sun goes down the Piazza is given over to the kids to play soccer. They are having a great time. I keep trying to imagine kids taking over a public space like this at home-- never would happen without getting adults in a tizzy.

More ways we know we are in Italy

The cell phone tipped us off that we had crossed into Italy, but the walk-through that our hostess gave us of the B&B confirmed it. She walked us into the kitchen and explained how to make the 5 different kinds of coffee you may want in the morning. She even made Andrew practice with the espresso machine to make sure he had his technique down. “Here is for Italian coffee, there you can make American, this has instant, this is the barley coffee” Umm, wait, barley coffee? Andrew asked why people drink barley coffee and our hostess replied, “I do not understand, but people they like it.” (Can you read that with an Italian accent? It helps, put pauses between the words) Finally back in a dark corner almost untouched was the decaf.

alghero

We are in Alghero Sardinia, which feels very different from Corsica. I have written all sorts of blog posts, alas, we have no wireless and only a communial computer in an internet cafe with an italian keyboard, gasp.

Look for a flurry of posts in a few days when we get off this island. in the meantime, here is a picture I stole from a hotel website that kind of shows what Alghero is like.

Goodbye Merci and Hello Grazie

We are officially in Italy. We first knew we were in Italy mid ferry trip when our cell phone sent us a text message explaining the Italian rates and that “Orange goes with you to Italy” (that last sentence was in French, Andrew translated it for me. Just in case you were wondering, Orange is the cell phone company) Yes, that is right, our cell phone knew we were in Italy before we did. Andrew thinks this little technological feat is amazing. I think it is just a little creepy.

I was finally getting comfortable with French (I answered a question in French with French today and I can read a menu with gusto) and now, whoosh, back to square one. I hate this stage: all my brain will do is pull up my middle school Japanese. If I had a euro for every time I tried to say sorry in Japanese instead of French over the last month my beer budget would be greatly expanded. As I said, back to square one. Most of the morning was spent trying to teach me to say, and then remember, the Italian for “I don’t understand” It is slow going. Conveniently, I have my personal translator with me: Andrew. He just seems to know this stuff. Granted his Italian is more limited compared to his French, but a couple podcasts under his belt and he is rearing to go. I am working on being appreciative rather then jealous.

Andrew helpfully pointed out that even the children can speak Italian here. Thanks.

Things we've learned in Porto Vecchio

1. Swimming naked in the Mediterranean is amazing -- however, it is quite cold in October

2. Aubergines the size of Kate's head go bad quickly

3. Don't go on an hour long bike ride wearing only your swim trunks -- it chafes
4. You only need to apply 50 SPF sunblock once per day
5. If Kate wears 50 SPF sunblock for many days in the sun, she actually starts to look sunkissed (see Mlle. Perry's hit single)
6. Andrew never tires, while riding a scooter, of saying "Ciao!"
7. Riding a scooter is fun!

8. Riding a scooter is harder than it looks
9. Helmets never fit Andrew. (for the parents: I did end up wearing a helmet, but it didn't feel good and I will have a bruise on my forehead for months)
10. Changing from your dress into your bikini is so much easier when everyone else on the beach is topless
11. You can float on your back in the Mediterranean without moving a muscle
12. Andrew can successfully make a meal out of the remnants in the fridge (Corsican stir-fry!)
13. Eating a Magnum white chocolate bar looks like you're eating a stick of butter

14. So few Americans come to Corsica that the Corsicans cannot tell the difference between British English and American English -- we kept being asked if we lived in London
15. Of these few Americans that come to Corsica, the only ones that we met, a group of painters, hail from the SF bay area, mainly Marin -- Kate went to high school with one their godchildren (obviously)
16. All of this would be much more fun with friends and family here