As I set out today to walk up the main street in my neighbourhood to pick up some last minute groceries for the New Year's party, I couldn't help but take notice of all that was green and vibrant around me. I recalled how I had the same sentiment at this time last year ... and the year before. I am sure there is a blog about it if only I had the patience to look it up.
As a girl from the Midwest U.S. it amazes me that at the end of December, just at the tip of January, new life is springing anew. Perhaps it is a stark contrast since I just recently parted the greyness, where the ground is entering its deep freeze. Yet, as I swept the patio this morning I saw the Magnolia tree was budding and out front the bulbs are already peaking their noses out of the damp soil. As I briskly made my way, each of the luscious greens grabbed at my attention.
How slowly London shows its signs of Spring, as these buds will make their way in their own due time, but I couldn't help but be oh so happy that Fall quickly makes it way to Spring here and dream ever so briefly about the daffodils of March.
Not one blog yet in December??? Well, the holiday break will allow me to get caught up in preparation for the new year. This one will focus on a foodie delight trip, when over Thanksgiving I had a business trip to Milan I decided to take advantage of. There is so much to see and do (and eat) in Northern Italy. With its vineyards producing some of the best wine in the world and the land's endless supply of foodie delights, it is one of my favourite places on Earth.
I planned a series of train rides to visit the food focused towns to the East of Milan, first stopping in Parma (home to Parmesan cheese, as well as the notorious Prosciutto di Parma), then on to Modena (home of Balsamic Vinegar), and then finally to spend the weekend in Bologna (which amongst many other foodie boasts is the birthplace of Mortadella, Tortelloni, and Bolognese sauce). My dear friend Angela met me in Milan and away we went!
We got to Parma on the evening of Thanksgiving Thursday - we paid a tribute to the American holiday with a plateful of the local prosciutto and pumpkin stuffed tortelloni. As a starter the waiter wheeled over a cart with a giant wheel of Parmesan cheese from which he chipped us off a few chunks. I have arrived! Devine!
After a stroll around town in the morning admiring the local produce shops and boutiques we hopped the half hour train to Modena. Goal was simple - lunch and to secure a bottle of the local 12 year aged vinegar, the good stuff. Mission accomplished! Lunch of pasta with octopus and a glass of the local lambrusco wine was just as should be had in such a place. The shop where I purchased the vinegar was out of a dream ... the walls of the tiny shop were stacked with oils and panettone, the owners must have been there for decades, and they paper wrapped the bottles I purchased while I admired all the Italian pastries on offer. Smiles from ear to ear!
One more short train ride to Bologna - the foodie capital of Italy (and that is quite a title). Off the main square is a series of narrow cobblestone streets full of market shops overflowing with salamis, pasta, cheese, seafood, and vegetables. Ahhhh I was in heaven peaking around each and every corner!
Angela has a couple of cousins living in Bologna, so in turn they took us to delicious restaurants across the old town (known for all its porticos, or covered sidewalks). The first evening's dinner was a bowl of fresh pasta and Bolognese sauce - possibly the best pasta dish I have ever eaten.
After strolling the streets of town on Saturday we went a bit off the beaten path to a small osteria to have a full Italian meal - antipasta, primi (pasta), secondi (meat), and the dolce - and all with local ingredients from the Emilia Romagna region - cheese, vinegar, mortadella, fried torteloni.
Sunday AM we got an unexpected ride out of town to see a church towering over the region a top the rolling hills - San Luca. There is a portico covered walkway up the hill from the town that has 666 archways, saying that sinners will cleanse their sins as they make their way slowly to the top. After all the we had eatten the past few days we probably should have made the journey! Nah, we went on for one last Italian feast for lunch. What an amazing foodie adventure, made even better with the companionship of a great friend and her family.
Though currently attempting to optimize my in-person wine experiences, the latest was a pure coincidence. In a meeting of the stars, life would have it that a dear friend of mine from Chicago would be visiting Paris in November, near the time when I needed to schedule a business meeting. As we finalized a date, he mentioned how lucky I was to be in France for the "Beaujolais Nouveau". Huh?
So, the research begins. Beaujolais is a region in France, south of Burgundy and Nouveau stands for "new". Simple enough. This is one of the few red wines they do not age to maturity, letting the juice ferment for just a matter of weeks from harvest until the third Thursday in November when they pop barrels all over France, especially the South, to toast the season's harvest.
Let me be clear ... this stuff is terrible. Any self-respecting Frenchman raises their nose in horror when you mention you drank the stuff, let alone came into the country just to celebrate it. I kept my comments to a minimum in the meeting the day after. Kind of like saying you love Colt 45.
Still, I am not a wine snob who limits themselves to only the superb, this is about breadth of knowledge as much as depth. I did some quick searching for events in Paris and found a street party that seemed the best option. On my walk over, I ran across a small wine shop with a huge barrel in the window and decided to pop in. Turns out, they were literally filling the bottles, corking them, and smearing the labels on right there! How exciting! Honestly, it wasn't too bad ... and at 5 Euro, I bought a souvenir bottle.
Perhaps I was spoiled by that experience. As I walked up, there was a door with possibly a thousand bottles of wine lined up behind. I grabbed one and gave it a shot. My first thought was, "this ... is ... the worst wine I have ever tasted". Eh, I'll give it another try.
Second try, it was still horrible. So, that experience is complete. However, I still had a weekend in Paris to share in friendly conversation and explore France's culinary adventures, like jellied seafood terrines.
My Mom has been a collector of the "blue plate" for as long as I can remember (really, I can't remember when all this started). These blue plates are collector's Christmas plates from a company called Royal Copenhagen, out of ... you guessed it!
The company has issued a plate each year commemorating the holiday, and my Mom and I have spent numerous pleasurable afternoons browsing various locations one might find such a plate ... delighting when we found one, snarling when the price was ridiculous or it was the all too prevalent palm trees (right, you see a lot of those in Denmark). She has completed quite a collection over the years, and as a collector often does, come to the point where only the very special will have the privilege of being added to the collection hung around the soffit of the kitchen.
Myself, as I consider weekend getaways in the colder months, like to focus on city trips, where you wonder the stone streets, not taking concern of the chill because the crisp in the air and views are so sweet.
Nordic cities certainly fall into this genre, so I have been keeping my eye on Copenhagen because of its sentimental value, and closeness to the sea and Sweden. I was considering a visit for the Christmas markets, but when I saw "Europe's largest flea market" I was booked in a heartbeat. I decided to do a solo trip ... only Mom could truly have the endurance and enthusiasm to power through this like I wanted.
I took the after work flight Friday night and had enough time to drop off the bag and go grab the local Christmas beer, Tuborg Julebryg (interesting fact ... their marketing campaign is one of the oldest still utilized today .. cute!).
However, there was no time for play, as I needed to get off to bed to wake early, grab a coffee and an amazing cinnamon roll and get off to the Loppemarked (Danish for "huge room of amazing vintage goods!")
What can I say ... it was delightfully full of mod Danish furniture and kitchen bits, loaded with Royal Copenhagen, not only blue plates, but figurines and the like. I picked up a few items, including a bag of licorice (and if I would have had the means would have picked up a lot more). After four hours I wearily made my way back onto the Metro into town for the second half of the day exploring the city.
I went for a light lunch of Smorgasbord ... my first round of pickled herring, which given my DNA is a delight. By that time it was already dark (like 4P) so I wondered the cobbled streets looking at shops, listening to street musicians, and passing by the mecca Royal Copenhagen flagship store. {Don't worry Mom, noooothing to be seen there). Did you know legos were invented in Denmark? They were.
Went back to the hotel to get purty for my fancy dinner (which you can read about here), stopped to see some bad 80s music after , and then to bed again for Sunday was another big day! Up early again to grab the canal boat tour for an hour before heading off on the metro again to see the food market and eat everything in sight!
I know I am all about food, pretty much all the time, but they had their herring served on the seagull plates from Royal Copenhagen. Awwww! And huge chunks of Danish blue cheese ... yeah, that came home with me along with a gorgeous piece of smoked salmon covered in dill. And don't get me started about the sweet rolls with cardamom ...
Copenhagen is a beautiful little harbour city, where you can still see the life of old salty fisherman, yet experience the surge they had in the 70s specifically around architecture and design. When I go up north I feel a sense of identity ... people are kind, clean, eat healthy appreciate nature ... and are punctual!! My flight boarded early both times on Scandinavia airlines!
Noma restaurant, Copenhagen has been voted the best restaurant in the world the last three years. As soon as I knew I was heading to the city for Europe's largest flea market I started writing emails and attempting to secure a booking. Crickets. Copenhagen has no shortage of Michelin-rated joints, so after a bit more research I opted to spend my evening of culinary delight at AOC.
Like Noma they are also known for utilising only local, in season ingredients (i.e. foraging the nearby forests for juniper berries and thyme) and serving them with visually stunning presentation. The menu is seven courses with a wine pairing at each course (!!!!). The food and wine on their winter menu were out of this world, but this is also designed to be "an experience".
Here's a little on how mine went, as a solo diner at a Michelin star restaurant: Soul is smiling big, anticipation is bubbling. I'm looking around the simple creamy room to take in every detail - in fact what I notice is absence of detail - only candles on the white table clothes and mod Danish lighting and serving trays. It is located in the lower level of a restored historic building, so the archway details make the room. I notice everyone is looking at me, trying to figure out who I am - feeling both a little sad for me and at the same time overly intrigued to meet me. I suppose it must be odd for an extremely beautiful woman to dine alone at their place (:-)); I imagine they think I must be somewhere between royalty, movie star, and acclaimed food critic. Let them wonder. Da da da ... Time passes and the servers begin to whisk out a precise series of five starters that come before the meal accompanied by the crispest, fluffiest champagne ever. Each is a single mouthful - little jerky served on a twig, some other crunchy bit, tartar, pistachio cream filled milkskin (?), duck fat broth (eek). As you do, I listen to other people's low chatter and my own thoughts intermingle with theirs. Heard a girl say "Cuba". I want to go to Cuba, but I want to have long hair and a base tan and, well, be 26. I saw that flight out of Tampa to Havana. Did they change the travel restriction? Who comes to places like this? Well I guess now I do. I think I like this crowd (well except that girl in the grape satin dress and string of pearls that keeps saying "like"). Sophisticated but not snooty, money but not showing off, taking pictures of every plate like me. I see a Dad and his smart, you-raised-her-well daughter, a couple so comfortable they must be on their 50th visit, two Arabic men doing business, a younger couple more in my genre of "wow can't believe we're here, what is that?" Most surprising thing for some reason is that every plate was delicious, and that I didn't leave hungry. I tasted each and every herb leaf (lemon verbena!), the brisket was as tender as I've ever had. I wont go into the detail of every plate, but the skate dish with caviar was the prettiest dish I've seen plated. I was served by the owner and sommelier himself (a move done I'm sure just in case I was the head writer for Food & Wine). Ballsy wine list. For me the wine pairing was as much as a treat as the food. A tangy Austrian white and the reds were all out of this world, strong, berry heavy, exactly my taste - Russian River valley Pinot (served with a truffled Jerusalem artichoke I will soon be attempting to replicate), a couple Frenchies to go with the brisket and duck plates, and closed with a Danish cherry wine served with juniper ice cream. Ta dah! The owner was really young. By "really" I mean, younger than me, wise beyond his years. I know a bit about wine, but this dude has 100 vintages of champaign on his menu (and I mean bubbly from the exact boundaries of the region) not just a long list of anything white with bubbles in it. His depth of knowledge and experience seemed beyond his years. I did decide to offer my feedback on his greatness, and also my constructive criticism that his cloudy, organic white wasn't my taste. When he said it paired well with yoghurt and cabbage my confidence was reinforced. I heard that day that 60% of Americans are one pay check away from poverty (this glutinous meal could have fed someone for months). I'm not really sure who I am right now. I mean, I know me, but I am growing and changing and I'm letting my limits have no bound for a while. We as humans (at least some of us) have a bad practice of looking at others we envy and thinking lucky for them, or subconsciously that we're not worthy, that life is for someone else, that we have to stay within some sort of pre-defined boundary. Fuey. You are who you make yourself to be. Despite others' raised eyebrows, I was exactly where I was meant to be that night and I walked out feeling somewhere between royalty, movie starlet, and acclaimed food critic.
Wikipedia: Day of the Dead (Spanish: Día de los Muertos) is a Mexican holiday celebrated throughout Mexico and around the world. The holiday focuses on gatherings of family and friends to pray for and remember friends and family members who have died. The celebration takes place on November 1 and 2, in connection with the Catholic holidays of All Saints' Day and All Souls' Day. Traditions connected with the holiday include building private altars honouring the deceased using sugar skulls, marigolds, and the favourite foods and beverages of the departed and visiting graves with these as gifts. They also leave possessions of the deceased. I have always enjoyed the artistic creations associated with this celebration, so colourful and detailed, joyous yet sad. It is this day of remembrance that is root of America's Halloween ... which derived from Hallow's Eve, the night before All Souls' Day. A friend of mine posted a celebration in London's Old Vic Tunnels hosted by one of the city's Mexican foodies and headlining the Mexican guitar duo Rodrigo y Gabriela ... all factors made this a sure win. I decided this would be my "Halloween" celebration this year, and set out to plan a traditional Dia de los Muertos costume for the event. Makeup, dried roses, and some fabric, trim, and lace to make a skirt. The Old Vic Tunnels are a very cool venue, underneath the current Waterloo train station, consisting of a series of cavernous, damp brick train tunnels that you arrive at by walking down a long graffiti covered tube. The hosts decked it out with various haunting art installations, performing artists, creepy silent movies, and thousands of candles. Complimentary gauc and tacos came with the deal, and they were serving up Jasmine Margaritas. Everything was top notch. It was quite a hoot to be all decked out in dress, and people responding quite nice to our costumes! I have loved Rodrigo (and I guess his lovely partner as well) for quite a while, and it was exciting to see them play in such a great scene. I have included a video typical of their music, as well as a slideshow with some pics! A great memory was made ...
Unexpected fortune ... a global internet measurement conference in Rome - a city that deserves to be high on any traveller's list, but lacking beaches and a wine district within walking distance, it managed to miss my priority list over the past two years.
Yet, there I was with little time to prepare for the trip, more freaked out about what to wear to a "black tie optional Gala Dinner" and assuring I had an iPad on hand to at least give off the perception I was with it, er um, technically speaking.
Nonetheless, I arrived Monday with some time later in the evening to venture off ... I grabbed a ride and proceeded to walk towards the Trevi fountain. As I rounded the corner I let out a "whoa" at its size and crystal blue waters. Gorgeous. {Curse my camera for not producing clear photos on this trip!!}
I had planned to walk to the Colosseum, which was an aggressive plan considering the distance and the time. On my way, I did wonder pass the original Peroni bar (had to stop in for a halfer) and veered myself through tiny alleys, speckled with little shops and cafes gazing up at the shuttered balconies with draping ivies. I love that bit about Europe!
Much to my fears, as I made it out into the vast open space where the ruins lie in front of the Colosseum, the skies opened up ... and not for a little bit. As I ran for cover in what can only be described as Biblical rains, I caught one eye of the Colosseum, but more so witnessed several tourists' umbrellas being blown into the stratosphere from the winds. As I leaned against the wall, my skinny jeans were saturated and my boots were overflowing with water ... one of those moments when you pause and think "how in the world did I end up here?" I felt as big as an ant ... a very wet ant.
Unwillingly to sacrifice my only free night in Rome, I made a darting beeline for the taxi line, dove head first into the next in line and asked the driver to take me to the best vinoteca he knew of. Deal? Deal. As we drove, I got my wits about me and asked if he knew of Piazza Navona (that is where, in my perfect evening, I was to end up for dinner), and he responded with a grin, "well, that is where I am taking you". Serendipity calibrated.
By the time we arrived, the rains had slowed and again I was free to wonder about the piazza, sloshing in my boots and snapping pictures of the fountains. I found my way to a local spot for some dinner and wine and to off course dry out a bit.
The next AM I had a couple hours before the meetings began, so I arose bright and early and hit the street to see the Campo di Fiori, or flower market. Of course I had to find the local food market!! One booth had the most artistic, dreamy display of fall produce and on the perimeter a salami shop to end all hunting ... the best. Truffle salami in the bag - done, and done.
I grabbed a cafe and a croissant as any Italian would do, and made my way towards the Vatican City. It is a disgrace that I only had two hours to spend, as in reality I could have spent that long in one room, but when you have a limited amount of time in Rome, you make the best of it. I rushed my way through the Vatican, room after room, past sculptures and tapestries that seemed impossible, my brain can not wrap around their significance The world's most expressive writers could not come close to doing it justice in words, so I will not try. It's out of this world. The hall of maps ... I want to go back there (not ironically, the most scientific part).
The conference was stimulating and rejuvenating, full of bright innovators from around the globe. The gala dinner went fine ... we had cocktails on top of the Spanish Steps and the event in a beautiful ballroom. The post-dinner social was around from the Pantheon so I got to check that off my list via that route. The second evening's dinner was in the most beautiful piazza I have yet to see, with very old buildings dripping in ivy and ancient fire-burning sconces, following a very educational walk around the Jewish Ghetto of Rome. Leaders from Facebook, Google, whah, whah, whah whah ... back to the important stuff.
Because the torrential rain shower cut short my visit to the Colosseum, I was somewhat obsessing about it and decided to cut out an hour early on my way back to the airport to catch a glimpse. Fortunately the agenda permitted, and alas I crossed off the major sites in Rome.
However ... don't anyone be fooled. I barely scratched the surface of what lies beneath. Rome is an aesthetically amazing place, with ancient sculptures in the squares of seemingly insignificant complexes, piles of buildings with stairways designed by Michaelangelo, and towering fountains behind walls most will not see, with hundreds of pieces of art hanging in unassuming museums. Rome is deserving of much more time than I was allowed to offer ... and I barely even spoke of the foooooood!!
This week I happened to catch a pretty bad cold, possibly a flu. You know, the one you feel coming on because your back and neck become insensibly painful, your chest feels like someone has a 2 ton weight on it, and you can't seem to find any energy. By day two, you're completely delirious ... cold sweats, dizziness, nausea, and a throat swollen nearly shut. That's it.
Early in the stages of day one I go on full frontal attack, the "you can't beat me" attitude: Vitamin C tablets, herbal teas, hot bath, (thanks to the English) hot water bottle in the bed, and physically horizontal as soon as possible.
Day two, after fifteen hours of sweaty, sleep full of trippy dreams I wake to scan Pinterest for the best of the net's soup recipes. Despite my urges during my "healthy" days (cheesy broccoli, crispy French onion, creamy mushroom), when I am ill I crave brothy, vegetable heavy soups that have little dairy or fat. So, I choose Roasted Corn Chowder (recipe here), determine I have enough energy to make it to the market for the ingredients (fresh air seems like a good idea), and pull myself out of bed.
As I went through my standard routine of hitting my deli for a simple breakfast I chose to get a fresh mint tea instead of a latte and grab an organic mandarin orange in place of an almond croissant. Tummy just doesn't seem like it can handle my normal weekend temptations.
For anyone who knows me even a little bit, they will be familiar with my love affair with the Borough market. Yet, today, I couldn't even eat! Now is when I begin to pray this sickness will soon pass. I grab all the ingredients I need, try consciously not to breath or touch anyone, and make my way back home.
And as I begin to make my soup, I think, "Wow. This is how we are supposed to eat every day, not just when we are sick". Citrus, teas, vegetables, low fat ... so, I consider why I don't. I am very conscious of what I eat ... and the answer is simple: the food we choose is a balance of business and pleasure. Yes, it is to sustain our bodies with with nutrients we need to move about for as long as possible, but it is also about pleasure - a reward for a job well done, a privilege for success, a celebration.
There are just some food categories bring about a drug-induced sense of pleasure: Prosciutto (i.e.bacon, salami, mortadella), Brie (or Mozzarella Parmessan, Cheddar), Wine, French bread, Creams (sour, cheese, freche), Steak ... we all can make our own list. And this is where balance comes in.
We all know to chose a carrot over cake, but the epiphany here is that our body is brilliant - that during illness the little voice inside starts screaming ... "Orange Juice!" ... "Cheese Ick!" ... "Hot tea!". If ever we didn't believe our body tells us what it needs, in times of sickness it is forcefully evident. I for one am going to listen more closely when I am fortunate enough to be well; and be sure not to tip the balance too much to the side of pleasure (hope 51:49 works!).
Let me take you to a place ... you know when you are relaxing near a camp fire, wearing long sleeves out in the wilderness far enough to not see city lights, at the end of summer when the air is warm, but the chill of Fall is coming up close, biting from behind ... yes, ok, that's it.
You're telling stories, the stars are out in the clear black sky, the coals are low enough to not be roaring, but glow that gorgeous orange ... hot dogs/marshmallows on a stick ...
Ok, now that you're there ... you're not. The air and the night are the same, the smell of Summer's end surrounds, but you are actually in your flat in London, stretching the beautiful kelp green scarf made of Swedish yarn you finished lounging in the warm sun today ... and in the distance you hear - your eyes widen and you hear - the joyous, perpetual fire, thunderous pride bellowing out the resistant joy to close the absolute final ending of the London 2012 Olympics. So nearby you can literally feel it.
The pops and bangs and echoes go on for minutes and it dawns on you that this moment is one of those unique times when mankind unites in a unanimous high five ... "we did this, you're awesome, I swear I'm going to work out more, people's lives were changed, and we are all better because of it". Yes!
But, please, pleeeeease do not look me in the eye tomorrow as we all pretend to read our papers or smartphones on the tube, because, well, that would just be awkward.
I have a little bit of a pet peeve with complaining, which is ironic since I now live in the culture notorious for "groaning". I am definitely not perfect here and am excluding cases where expressing grief is healthy, but when I hear mundane moaning about how hot it is, how cold it is, how busy they are, how bored they are, how so-and-so isn't doing things their way, I want this, I hate that ... I am often thinking in my head, "you'd be a lot happier if you focused on the good in your life and can we change the subject to something more optimistic before I say this out loud?"
Knock on wood most people I regularly have contact with have it pretty good, and after an evening at the Paralympics this weekend I am certain we have nothing to groan about. Watching these Olympians, after enduring what could only be horrific experiences, recover physically, rehabilitate mentally, overcome public humiliation, and summons the strength within to train for years to become the strongest, fastest in their class is a very humbling experience.
I had a ticket to the Track & Field event and witnessed men and women from around the world, young and old, some mentally challenged or blind, some missing limbs, and most requiring the assistance of several others to compete in sport ... sport that I am sure in many cases saved their lives from severe depression or worse.
It takes constant awareness to see the blessing in every moment, good and bad. Yes, no matter how good we have it, we still go through good moods and bad, get crabby and annoyed, and want for more (seems it is human nature to always want for more) ... and it is at these times I will do my best to switch my thoughts around to review all the fortune and joy in my life and consider in that moment the impression these Olympians left on me and the promise they provided - that no matter how bad it can get optimism and the human sprirt can overcome as long as you keep your focus on the good things in life, no matter how small they seem.
This past Spring my friend Angela said she wanted to take a "real" holiday this August and spend a significant amount of time in Italy. Without hesitation my reaction was "done and done". A couple reasons ... first, Angela is Italian and if anyone knows how to do it, she does. Secondly, upon moving here in July two years ago I quickly learned that several mainland European countries literally shut down in August ... the entire month ... like turn the AC off, lock the doors, close the office holiday ... for a month.
Startling indeed ... totally brilliant! To be honest even my 10 day jaunt was met with a bit of a raised eyebrow from the southern European folk, like "haven't you learned YET how to holiday?". Guilt-free holidaying is superb. And the inbox was delightfully easy to manage since everyone else was doing the same.
So, we decided on Sardegna (Sardinia in American). That's the big island the boot kicks into the Mediterranean :-). It was to be a girls trip ... big house, people can come and go as they please. Most of the time we were five or six, a couple nights we were seven, but despite flying in from different ends of the world we certainly had the single, successful woman thing in common.
Judging by the 400 photos I took, the majority of this trip was about turquoise waters, sun-tanning, good food and wine, and {not in photos} girl talk. Precisely what was needed.
Kara and I hit three locations on the island. First night we went down to Cala Ganone to see the East Coast, and woke up to meet Amy to take a boat ride along the coast to visit the beautiful Cala Luna beach complete with steers sipping out of the pond between us and the lovely canteen.
Then, up north to Porto Cervo to meet up with the clan in our three bedroom house (complete with stunning blue pool ... and its own kids!! .. yes, that is sarcasm). Seriously though, the house was beautiful. Patio, grill, locally made rugs, quiet, and on most nights pleasantly breezy. Seven nights.
When I mentioned to my aforementioned co-workers about going to Porto Cervo they snidely commented about me being over-paid, as the area is known as being the port for the most exquisite yachts around the world ... like Monaco or Nice. Google images of this location bring up move stars and the like. Meh. Ok, yes, there were some big boats someone more interested in that arena may drool at, but that really was the least of my interest.
We had a couple cars, so we drove around from beach to beach to beach. The area is quite secluded, so it was necessary to do the research to find the best places to go. Most beaches are on small, cliff-side roads with the only indication of their presence being a group of cars parked along the way.
The highlight of the trip for me was chartering a sail boat to take us out amongst the smaller islands offshore. There you could truly experience the undisturbed waters, glowing brilliantly, so clear our crew was literally inspired to conduct a full synchronized swimming routine while chiming the words to "So, Call Me Maybe".
For the last two nights we headed straight West to Alghero. I larger, historic port town with winding cobblestone streets lined with coral jewellers and gelato shops. We stayed at a small hotel, from which we wandered to find delicious restaurants perched on the city wall overlooking the most amazing sunsets of the trip. Known for its lobster and red wines, we partook in the local luxuries.
There were so many memorable moments, like the stressful manipulation of the car onto the ferry to cross to the Maggalena island, Amy's wind-surfing adventure, grilling amazing seabass at the house, swimming challenging distances to see schools of fish circle a distant boulder, fur coats for thousands of dollars at a street market, the ladies plunging off a 20ft cliff into the sea, crispy local white Vermentino wines, clubbing it on a beach at sunset, lobster, fresh fish, salami, Pecorino, bread, cookies, nutella ...
I could go on and on. Laughing, hugs, new friends, best tan ever ... {so freaking happy right now}.
I have been considering my Olympics posts now for quite some time. In part my delay is a result of wanting them to appropriately capture the vibe of it all and conversely because I simply have been spending my spare time catching up on all the events on bbc.co.uk instead !
My Olympic buzz has been a slow burn. I am not traditionally a huge sports fan on the regular, but I have always been into the Olympics, especially women's gymnastics. It started to flicker when the torch relay passed within blocks of my flat, sprinted into a crescendo when I was surprisingly offered last minute tickets to watch the dress rehearsal of the opening ceremony, and may have hit pinnacle as I sat in box seats at the women's gymnastics team finals. (woot!)
The city is buzzing! Most Londoners are either gone or not leaving the house, so as you cruise the streets or ride the tubes you most often are surrounded by excited visitors, Olympic volunteers in full costume, and if you're lucky a genuine athlete wearing their medal! Its actually quite pleasing.
Many of the countries are hosting "houses" where they welcome visitors to express their local culture, food, and drink, so the city is donning flags from all around the world. Regents Street is decked out with all the International banners on display ... the Olympic rings adorn Tower Bridge ... there is an overall sense of excitement and comradery among the people from all around the world.
Not sure if you have noticed, but at the events everyone cheers for everyone! The sport of it all is truly prevailing, and I couldn't be more proud of the people of the world right now. We are the woooorld, we are the peeeeople, we are the ones who make a brighter day .... sorry, I digress.
I mentioned it a bit, but a few key events have donned my experience so far:
Olympic torch relay ... criss-crossed England, then the city of London for days, passing within blocks of my flat. It was simple and under-stated, but accomplished what is was supposed to ... spreading the Olympic spirit throughout the land. Not sure who our chick was, but she was cute. (Those last few statements are a kind of metaphor for Britain in general.)
Actual torch holding myself ... my company is the official data sponsor of the Olympics. Thus, we had two torch holders and in the end a torch in our office for a couple hours for posing. Heavy, but not ... and a somewhat disappointing revelation that there are indeed thousands of Olympics torches each year. Hm.
Women's Gymnastics Team Finals ... the motherload. I did indeed buy these tickets outright as the one souvenir event I must attend. We arrived in style on the new "airline" cable car across the river. The seats were outstanding, and well, the USA whooped behind to secure gold in case you haven't seen it already. Homemade T-shirts! USA! USA! USA!
Beach Volleyball in front of Buckhingham Palace ... seriously. A surprise gift from a friend - front row tickets to both a men's and women's event. And to boot, it was actually Brazilian Women ... and they had DJs and dancers! Fun! Fun! Fun!
Since then I have been keeping up online, especially with gymnastics, diving, swimming, and track in between, taking advantage of wondering town when the opportunity arises. So hard to believe the closing ceremony is already this weekend. I did manage to get a hold of some free tickets to the park nearby that will be airing the ceremony on big screens (although temptingly the tickets are on sale for £1500 each on the london2012 website ... NOT!!)
It has been unreal so far ... literally unreal. As I was watching the opening ceremony on TV, I thought, "what is that?" and indeed out the window saw the fighter jets fly overhead coming straight from the stadium spritzing their red, white, and blue smoke.
And later that evening, basking in the aura of what I had just witnessed, again, a "what is that?" and it was indeed the fireworks going off over the Olympic Park in the distance. I live within walking distance of the arena.
I am sure that the surreality of it all will catch up with me in the future, but for now, I am going to keep cruising the streets looking for Phelps and Gaby, keeping an eye in the sky for Beckham's helicopter buzzing him to the next sport, and praying Pink Floyd closes the ceremony!!! Woo hooo!!! USA! USA! USA!
Music has a profound impact on a situation. Take for example my recent taxi trip from my hotel to the train station in Milan. It started as a fairly typical business trip morning - drag out of bed, pack up, make sure I don't forget the phone charger, get in the cab and panic until I don't miss my next mode of transport ...
But what happened instead was a glider ride through the city, floating through the roundabouts, mood altered by the crisp classical music the cabbie was playing a tad bit louder than politically correct. I don't know who it was ... I pretend Vivaldi or some other Italian Boroque artist I should be more informed about ... but with his fingers tapping out the piano on his knee and the warm wind in my face it was divine and I should have thanked him.
People were literally walking in step to the beat, the street lights changed on cue, and I suddenly realized how life's serendipity is so strong ... the peace I felt in my heart as I headed to the Italian City of Love - Verona was a part of my destiny.
Perhaps a glutinous move, but since I was in Milan and I had recently been looking at a bottle of Amarone that was a gift of a dear friend in Chicago, I decided that one extra day on the road wouldn't hurt anyone and booked the one hour train ride to Verona from Milan.
The destination was more so Valpolicella - the classic wine region in the foothills of the Alps north of town. Aside from their Classico and Superior varietals, they are most known for what I consider one of the three kings of wine - Amarone (others Barolo and Bordeaux).
It has a dear place in my heart, as it was really the first red wine that pulled me into the artform. It is made using a unique technique of letting the grapes dry before they are pressed and produces a warm, round, fruity red wine that will get you over any bad break up.
I spent my days in Verona wondering the winding streets lined with text book balconies full of succulents and vines, stopping to taste the local food and sit by the river to take it all in. I hiked up a mountain to view the top of town, and hired a driver to take me out into the hills of the wine region to visit a family on this wine farm and watch the sunset.
I liken a stay in the Luberon valley to ecstatic moments on repeat (for one, see side photo).
Last weekend, four girlfriends and I stayed in a stone cottage in the small town of Viens, East of Apt in the countryside of Provence (complete with a pool, vegetable garden, and view of distant lavender fields). The goal: local markets, sun, wine, dinner, repeat. Mission accomplished and then some!
The food market in the town of Lourmarin, noted as being the best in the area, was the destination Friday AM. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and the stalls were full of French linens, shopping baskets, salamis, cheese, bread, fabrics, wonderfully fresh local fruits and vegetables.
We all gathered whatever we fancied (I did get that French market basket I had been pining for) and slowly wondered the town before settling in for a lovely lunch and a bottle of Rose.
The old towns in this area are all, for lack of a better word, quaint. With their faded pastel facades, worn shutters, and draping vines ... the French Provincial "look" is in raw form, and it is gorgeous.
After having a delicious lavender and honey ice cream, we set off on the winding drive through the grapevine covered hills back for the house to enjoy the sun by the pool and harvest the garden for dinner.
Eggplant, zucchini flowers, tomatoes, and fresh chard were all available and we took advantage of it! Angela made roasted eggplant stuffed with Toulouse sausage and fresh tomato sauce; I made tomato salad, fresh greens, and fried up the zucchini flowers. Of course, local reds from the Luberon valley were the perfect accompaniment. It was a feast!!
Saturday morning we set off in search of the local baker, known for some of the best croissants around. Boy, we weren't disappointed. The little shop still had a fire inside a large brick oven where all the breads were made. The chocolate filled croissant was amazing, and just the first of carbohydrate loaded day.
We carried on into the larger town of Apt, which has its weekly market on Saturday, and pushed through quickly to get some meat to grill for dinner. I just may have bought some adorable linen curtains for the living room.
For the second half of the day some of the girls decided to wash off some work week stress by the pool, while Pam and I went in search of the lavender fields up near the town of Gordes and the Senanque Abby.
The remaining afternoon couldn't have been scripted better, and there were moments of pure bliss that aren't often experienced in life. The drive was gorgeous, up and down the foot hills of the valley, crossing through small towns with patches of lavender fields between. Gordes is picture perfect, perched on the hill, and we stopped to browse art galleries and wine shops after our visit to the Abbey. The Senanque abbey is probably the most photographed site for lavender tourists and was stunning, both from above where you drive in and up close. It is an active religious site where monks live today and can be seen working in the lavender fields.
As if the day couldn't get any better, on our way back home we came across the town St. Saturnin d' Apt which was having a flea market!!! No choice, but to extend our day out a bit longer and wonder through this great fortune. If only ... if only I had endless cash and if only I had a means to transfer back massive quantities of furniture (i.e. old wood farm tables, wrought iron day beds), old wine making supplies, fabrics ... ugh, there were so many dreamy items here.
But alas, I had niether and was over-joyed just having the memory of being at the best French Provincial flea market, perched on a hill with a stunning view of the countryside. Ahhhh ... now for that glass of Rose.
A couple more hours in the sun, and we began our second evening feast. More goods from the garden, cheese, salami, olives, spicy anchovies and garlic, fig and goat cheese salad, and of course the steak on the grill (which required a lesson from the groundskeeper - "put sticks on grill, fire, voila").
Finally, our lazy Sunday, absorbing the last hours of sun and eating everything that remained in the fridge (that ham and cheese croissant was awesome!!). We begrudgedly packed our belongings and went on our way back towards Marseilles to catch our flight. The drive was nerve-racking. For quite some time you are perched on the edge of the mountains, with shear drop offs at your side and no line of sight around hairpin turns. Grip tight ... gulp. The ladies were quite silent (probably praying for their lives).
An exhilarating experience, that rewarded us with a picture-perfect field of sunflowers on the other side of the mountain (interesting fact: many artists, such as Vincent Van Gogh's sunflower paintings were inspired by the beauty of this region).
Though this post accounts most of our doings, the real joy of this trip was the time with the girls ... laughing, hugging, sharing the kitchen, and praising life's bounty ... bliss.
How slowly London shows its signs of Spring, as these buds will make their way in their own due time, but I couldn't help but be oh so happy that Fall quickly makes it way to Spring here and dream ever so briefly about the daffodils of March.
