Though initially PB and I had planned to take a day trip to Cinque Terre yesterday and hike a few trails, when we were still at supper on Saturday night at 11pm we decided that we would not want to try to make a 6am flight, and so we scrapped Cinque Terre and ended up out at the Boboli Gardens. I had not seen Palazzo Pitti or the gardens during my previous trip to Florence and was a bit indignant that we each were required to pay 10 Euro to enter, as my experience with European gardens was limited to those at Luxembourg and thus free. We frolicked around the area for a while, taking silly pictures and even wandering through a costume display in the Palazzo Pitti (we stumbled upon it while trying to find the bathrooms); unfortunately, our main goal, to find a statue of a guy on a horse coming out of some body of water, was never accomplished. I believe we searched every body of water in the gardens to no avail.
For lunch we had thought we would get fruit and bread from one of the smaller shops along the alleys in Oltrarno, but since it was Sunday most things were closed, and we figured we would just head back up to Fiesole again for more quiet and fewer tourists. We munched waffles with Nutella on the way to the bus stop and rode a noisy number 7 bus (the Georgetown students have just started at the Villa and were coming back from their first Florence excursion) up to the front of J.J. Hill. Fiesole was more of the same from the morning: we walked around taking silly pictures and pausing occasionally to head into the few stores that were open.
Eventually we made our way back to Santa Maria Novella, where we caught the 4:19 train to Milan and spent the night – nothing new eventful was seen or experienced, though we did spend quite a bit of time wandering around the Piazza Duomo trying to find a restaurant called the “Bistrot Duomo”. After much questioning of the locals, it was finally determined that the restaurant was, in fact, closed for renovations, and so we just had a repeat visit of “Quattro Mori”.
This morning we head back to the Malpensa airport to get on a flight to Atlanta and return to real life, which reminds me that I have still not written about the first day in Milan. DB and I had about half a day, during which we explored the Duomo, Il Cenacolo, and the Castello Sforzesco. The Duomo, which is supposedly the third largest in some region (the world? Italy? I am not sure), was pretty awesome, since we got to walk all the way up on the roof of it and see over Milan; The Last Supper, though, was obviously the highlight of the trip. In fact, we even happened to go in with a tour group who had a guide well-versed in all matters of the painting and learned more about it than expected.
Off to the airport now – Ciao!
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Mulan and Mulah
Two quick note on this blog:
1. Sorry for the late posting - we ran out of internet at midnight and I was too lazy to get more until this morning, and:
2. I thought I was quite clever for coming up with the blog name, but I was incorrect. There has not been one hour on this trip during which "If I Were a Rich Man" has not played through my head. In fact, it is such a prevalent theme* in my mind that it is possible I will actually turn Jewish (and then I could go to Israel for free!).
Okay, let's get down to business. Did they send my mother daughters when she asked for sons? Yes**, but today I proved that I am just as hardcore as Ping, and decidedly less obvious about my crushes on hot Italian men (like the one who stood outside our restaurant last night talking on his cell phone - he was so cute that my mother and I actually agreed on his hotness, and she even tried to convince me that he was standing out our window because he wanted me to go hit on him, but then we realized he was the waiter for the table next to us). Anyway, this morning PB and I left for a bike tour outside of Florence. We met Bill Dillon, an ex-pat turned Selective Resident of Italy and Bike Tour Extraordinaire, at Ponte alle Grazie, and headed to his warehouse to pick up bikes before hitting the proverbial and literal road. We actually pedaled all the way up to Fiesole, where we stopped to glance at Georgetown's Villa from above at the lookout point, and ended up about 45 minutes past that little town at a cafe for lunch. We were quite obviously the only tourists that the cafe had seen since the week before the Ice Age, and we were served some of the best bruschetta and ravioli (filled with potato!) I have ever even conjured up during my hungriest moments (some of which occurred during the bike ride up). We ended up biking around 15 miles, which is not exactly impressive, but since the three of us were required to stay together I performed as well as any son of my mother's might have by keeping up admirably.
Perhaps the most thought-provoking part of the day was our lunch conversation with Bill, who has been running his bike tour business for more than 15 years and is content to live the sleepier life of native Italians. "Americans live to work," he told us, "but Italians work to live." He soliloquized about the benefits of leading a life grounded in simple pleasures and centered on happiness and family, noting that his own father did not understand why he did not try to be more successful but that was the American mentality, after all. “It is not even about money,” he continued, sounding almost confused; “Americans just work hard.”
I listened, my mind floating between the two months I have spent in Europe out of the past six and my current gig in Atlanta. I have always romanticized Europe; I do not believe any lover of literature could avoid that, and I do not see any issue with doing so, anyway. I enjoy wrapping a gauzy, colorful scarf once around my neck and letting it trail out behind me***, and I like to visit tiny mercati and crepe stands, and I particularly love reading or writing in leather-bound journals in the middle of fields with foreign flowers dotting the unfamiliar landscape. The life of Italians has of course appealed to me; when on vacation in a country of a slower pace, one cannot help but consider that way of life. However, I have long since come to the conclusion that this romanticization is just that, and any attempt to capture, bottle, and live it would be altogether disastrous for me. Besides, like a good American, I love to work hard.
Ah, Italy! Your natives think I am crazy for wanting to make enough money to spend one month a year here; they say I should just move now and get a job and live in the simple, happy way. I understand their perspective, but like any tiny fire-breathing lizard-ancestor, I cannot help but hope that if I try hard enough I will become a dragon.
Too far?
At least I have a different song stuck in my head.
Buona sortie to all, and to all a sortie buona –
*Get it?
**She wanted to name the first one "Sonny", but he probably would have been "Claude Henry Booker II"; she actually tried to name SB "Sunshine" and call her "Sunny". Terrifying on all counts.
***A recommendation: when on trains, remove or wrap the scarves more closely to your body, as otherwise they WILL catch on another passenger’s foot, bag, newspaper, chair, pet monkey, imaginary friend, etc.
1. Sorry for the late posting - we ran out of internet at midnight and I was too lazy to get more until this morning, and:
2. I thought I was quite clever for coming up with the blog name, but I was incorrect. There has not been one hour on this trip during which "If I Were a Rich Man" has not played through my head. In fact, it is such a prevalent theme* in my mind that it is possible I will actually turn Jewish (and then I could go to Israel for free!).
Okay, let's get down to business. Did they send my mother daughters when she asked for sons? Yes**, but today I proved that I am just as hardcore as Ping, and decidedly less obvious about my crushes on hot Italian men (like the one who stood outside our restaurant last night talking on his cell phone - he was so cute that my mother and I actually agreed on his hotness, and she even tried to convince me that he was standing out our window because he wanted me to go hit on him, but then we realized he was the waiter for the table next to us). Anyway, this morning PB and I left for a bike tour outside of Florence. We met Bill Dillon, an ex-pat turned Selective Resident of Italy and Bike Tour Extraordinaire, at Ponte alle Grazie, and headed to his warehouse to pick up bikes before hitting the proverbial and literal road. We actually pedaled all the way up to Fiesole, where we stopped to glance at Georgetown's Villa from above at the lookout point, and ended up about 45 minutes past that little town at a cafe for lunch. We were quite obviously the only tourists that the cafe had seen since the week before the Ice Age, and we were served some of the best bruschetta and ravioli (filled with potato!) I have ever even conjured up during my hungriest moments (some of which occurred during the bike ride up). We ended up biking around 15 miles, which is not exactly impressive, but since the three of us were required to stay together I performed as well as any son of my mother's might have by keeping up admirably.
Perhaps the most thought-provoking part of the day was our lunch conversation with Bill, who has been running his bike tour business for more than 15 years and is content to live the sleepier life of native Italians. "Americans live to work," he told us, "but Italians work to live." He soliloquized about the benefits of leading a life grounded in simple pleasures and centered on happiness and family, noting that his own father did not understand why he did not try to be more successful but that was the American mentality, after all. “It is not even about money,” he continued, sounding almost confused; “Americans just work hard.”
I listened, my mind floating between the two months I have spent in Europe out of the past six and my current gig in Atlanta. I have always romanticized Europe; I do not believe any lover of literature could avoid that, and I do not see any issue with doing so, anyway. I enjoy wrapping a gauzy, colorful scarf once around my neck and letting it trail out behind me***, and I like to visit tiny mercati and crepe stands, and I particularly love reading or writing in leather-bound journals in the middle of fields with foreign flowers dotting the unfamiliar landscape. The life of Italians has of course appealed to me; when on vacation in a country of a slower pace, one cannot help but consider that way of life. However, I have long since come to the conclusion that this romanticization is just that, and any attempt to capture, bottle, and live it would be altogether disastrous for me. Besides, like a good American, I love to work hard.
Ah, Italy! Your natives think I am crazy for wanting to make enough money to spend one month a year here; they say I should just move now and get a job and live in the simple, happy way. I understand their perspective, but like any tiny fire-breathing lizard-ancestor, I cannot help but hope that if I try hard enough I will become a dragon.
Too far?
At least I have a different song stuck in my head.
Buona sortie to all, and to all a sortie buona –
*Get it?
**She wanted to name the first one "Sonny", but he probably would have been "Claude Henry Booker II"; she actually tried to name SB "Sunshine" and call her "Sunny". Terrifying on all counts.
***A recommendation: when on trains, remove or wrap the scarves more closely to your body, as otherwise they WILL catch on another passenger’s foot, bag, newspaper, chair, pet monkey, imaginary friend, etc.
Friday, September 4, 2009
The Wino and I Know
This morning we managed a successful tour of historic Florence, seeing the Accademia, Piazza del Duomo, Piazza della Repubblica, Piazza della Signoria, Mercato Nuovo, and Ponte Vecchio. We ate and drank at some wonderful restaurants (it's 1am here and I have gotten up to naming 151 countries, so their names will be posted in a list sometime later) and DI can give you details on exactly what I ate in all of them, since he is living vicariously through me this week. At around 1pm (12 hours ago?!) we sat down to have a drink, and when PB hesitated for a moment over whether it would in fact be kosher to drink so early, I had to remind her to always wonder, "What would Jimmy Buffett do*?"
Ah, Jimmy Buffett - muse through the years and music to my ears. Whenever confused by life, I have reverted to his wisdom, which is admittedly as difficult to follow as the Bible for somewhat similar reasons (the contradictions, not the praying or flagellating or plaguing - though when asking, "WWJBD?", turning water into wine is definitely on the list). I probably learned to speak by listening to Jimmy Buffett songs. I certainly learned what Junior Mints were from his music, and who Flaubert was, and also that aspiring to be a pirate when I grow up is an admirable goal but not a practical one. All in all, the logic of his sound is sound logic.
Moving on: at 3pm we met MaK and Monika Iris back at the hotel to begin a wine tour. Let me go ahead and put a plug in for Monica right now. BMc recommended her to me, and she is absolutely superawesome. Seriously, if you ever happen to go to/by/through/around Florence, even in dreams, get her contact information from me and go on one of her tours. She will even customize a tour for you based specifically on your requests and also can take you horseback riding or hiking or to see basketweavers (you get the point). Basically, she is amazing.
We rode in her Subaru along beautiful, narrow roads through the Chianti region, up past the Piazzale Michaelangelo, which I had not seen before and which had yet another copy of "David" (really, how many copies can one city want?). From the Piazzale we could actually see Georgetown's Villa up on the hill above Florence, which was pretty awesome and got me started talking about the Villa all over again (my parents are sick of hearing about it by now). Our next destination was M.I.T.A.L. (Manifattura Imprunetana Terrecotte Artistiche e Laterizi), a terrecotte workshop/villa where we saw beautiful pottery and learned that every three weeks, when the oven is full and ready to be fired, the owners actually brick up the wall and let the oven burn for days. To get the pottery out, they have to tear the wall down. Crazy terrecotte-ers.
We then headed up to Greve, where we bought water from the Caffe le Logge and stopped at Macelleria Falorni, a tasty butcher shop, for some prosciutto. Finally, the wine section began. Le Masse di Lamole was our first destination, where we tasted a Chianti Classico as well as a Riserva and made off with TWELVE bottiglie of the Riserva**. At Cennatoio, the second vineyard, we tasted so many wines I eventually lost count; the place was also teeming with cats (I named them Cat, Cat 2, Cat 3, and Cat 4) and a friendly dog with a green bandanna wagged his way around us as we toured the gardens and vineyards. The last location was actually my favorite - we were given antipasti and four wines by a sweet old man named Fernando - but I did not get a brochure (I do not believe they existed) and so will have to wait to post the name of that particular vineyard until my parents wake up tomorrow morning.
Supper was a whirlwind of several antipasti, gnocchi and salmon for PB and me to share, two types of wine, and a berry tart; finally we arrived back at the hotel, where I rinsed off in this insane shower that has no walls and began writing this. The moral? I am heading to sleep.
Post postscript: I know I have been giving facts only and that this has not been the most interesting LCBlog session; please forgive me as I am quite tired and apparently becoming something of a wino/sleepless creature of both the night and day who has purple bags under her eyes that really do bring out the green of her irises.
*He'd say, "I don't care - it's 5 o'clock somewhere".
**See how much better it is to travel as if you were a rich girl?
Ah, Jimmy Buffett - muse through the years and music to my ears. Whenever confused by life, I have reverted to his wisdom, which is admittedly as difficult to follow as the Bible for somewhat similar reasons (the contradictions, not the praying or flagellating or plaguing - though when asking, "WWJBD?", turning water into wine is definitely on the list). I probably learned to speak by listening to Jimmy Buffett songs. I certainly learned what Junior Mints were from his music, and who Flaubert was, and also that aspiring to be a pirate when I grow up is an admirable goal but not a practical one. All in all, the logic of his sound is sound logic.
Moving on: at 3pm we met MaK and Monika Iris back at the hotel to begin a wine tour. Let me go ahead and put a plug in for Monica right now. BMc recommended her to me, and she is absolutely superawesome. Seriously, if you ever happen to go to/by/through/around Florence, even in dreams, get her contact information from me and go on one of her tours. She will even customize a tour for you based specifically on your requests and also can take you horseback riding or hiking or to see basketweavers (you get the point). Basically, she is amazing.
We rode in her Subaru along beautiful, narrow roads through the Chianti region, up past the Piazzale Michaelangelo, which I had not seen before and which had yet another copy of "David" (really, how many copies can one city want?). From the Piazzale we could actually see Georgetown's Villa up on the hill above Florence, which was pretty awesome and got me started talking about the Villa all over again (my parents are sick of hearing about it by now). Our next destination was M.I.T.A.L. (Manifattura Imprunetana Terrecotte Artistiche e Laterizi), a terrecotte workshop/villa where we saw beautiful pottery and learned that every three weeks, when the oven is full and ready to be fired, the owners actually brick up the wall and let the oven burn for days. To get the pottery out, they have to tear the wall down. Crazy terrecotte-ers.
We then headed up to Greve, where we bought water from the Caffe le Logge and stopped at Macelleria Falorni, a tasty butcher shop, for some prosciutto. Finally, the wine section began. Le Masse di Lamole was our first destination, where we tasted a Chianti Classico as well as a Riserva and made off with TWELVE bottiglie of the Riserva**. At Cennatoio, the second vineyard, we tasted so many wines I eventually lost count; the place was also teeming with cats (I named them Cat, Cat 2, Cat 3, and Cat 4) and a friendly dog with a green bandanna wagged his way around us as we toured the gardens and vineyards. The last location was actually my favorite - we were given antipasti and four wines by a sweet old man named Fernando - but I did not get a brochure (I do not believe they existed) and so will have to wait to post the name of that particular vineyard until my parents wake up tomorrow morning.
Supper was a whirlwind of several antipasti, gnocchi and salmon for PB and me to share, two types of wine, and a berry tart; finally we arrived back at the hotel, where I rinsed off in this insane shower that has no walls and began writing this. The moral? I am heading to sleep.
Post postscript: I know I have been giving facts only and that this has not been the most interesting LCBlog session; please forgive me as I am quite tired and apparently becoming something of a wino/sleepless creature of both the night and day who has purple bags under her eyes that really do bring out the green of her irises.
*He'd say, "I don't care - it's 5 o'clock somewhere".
**See how much better it is to travel as if you were a rich girl?
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Born a Travelin' (Wo)man
This morning DB and I got back on the Malpensa Express (luckily I'll only have to ride that stupid train once more on this trip...dear lord the seats are uncomfortable) to go pick up PB at the airport. In a frenzy of European travel, the three of us and all our bags piled first onto the ever-present Malpensa Express, then onto Milan's subway system, and finally onto a TrenItalia EuroStar bound for Florence*. We managed to avoid taxis all day and stumbled through the parts of Florence I had never visited (that would be the part with hotels, which, it turns out, is necessary to stumble through if you are in fact staying in a hotel) in a marginally successful manner. Honestly, though there were a few hair-pulling moments, I would have to rank it as "boring" on a scale** from "so uneventful that I could have done it in my sleep" to "holy monkeys, things are so crazy that I think I just saw monkeys***".
We even got up to Georgetown's villa in Fiesole somewhat uneventfully and spent a very pleasant afternoon touring the grounds and tasting Fiesole's local cuisine (gelato from this place with a tucan out front - I don't know the name). We then proceeded to J.J. Hill, which, as some of you will remember from the ever-famous "From the Tuscan Broadband" "Chiachierra" series, was quite a frequent haunt for the International Law and Security students of summer past.
Which reminds me...
SPOTTED: Francesco at J.J. Hill. Embarrassed to say that he certainly remembered yours truly and happily created a Strongbow-blackberry juice combination, which he referred to as a "secret ingredient". Also think he was excited to meet the parents. What does this mean for RKl?
Down the hill on the number 7 bus and then on to supper at La Giusta, as recommended by DI - and DI, a recommendation back to you: the next time you want to impress a girl in Florence, take her there. Tres romantic. There were string lights flickering along the ceiling and candles on all the tables, so there was never any full, still light, which created a firefly atmosphere; the food was so wonderful that I almost began a "Dear Justin" in earnest****.
Now we are back in our hotel room, and PB and DB are sleeping while I try to learnthe countries of the world in order to beat JS, RKe, and PL by displaying my wealth of memorized knowledge when I return (to be fair, I can't watch Jeopardy! over here, and I have to get my dork fix somehow). I am aware that I have not yet written about the afternoon in Milan, but don't worry, stalkers - I'll post it soon.
Night for now -
*Technically it was bound for Rome, which did cause some confusion and create tension among the ranks, but eventually it was determined that it was bound for Rome BY WAY of Florence, which meant that we should indeed board.
**Note that this is not the normal travel scale, but rather the travel with parents scale.
***This usually only happens during travels through Africa.
****I did not because since DI was awesome enough to suggest the restaurant, I didn't want him to think I was making fun of him.
We even got up to Georgetown's villa in Fiesole somewhat uneventfully and spent a very pleasant afternoon touring the grounds and tasting Fiesole's local cuisine (gelato from this place with a tucan out front - I don't know the name). We then proceeded to J.J. Hill, which, as some of you will remember from the ever-famous "From the Tuscan Broadband" "Chiachierra" series, was quite a frequent haunt for the International Law and Security students of summer past.
Which reminds me...
SPOTTED: Francesco at J.J. Hill. Embarrassed to say that he certainly remembered yours truly and happily created a Strongbow-blackberry juice combination, which he referred to as a "secret ingredient". Also think he was excited to meet the parents. What does this mean for RKl?
Down the hill on the number 7 bus and then on to supper at La Giusta, as recommended by DI - and DI, a recommendation back to you: the next time you want to impress a girl in Florence, take her there. Tres romantic. There were string lights flickering along the ceiling and candles on all the tables, so there was never any full, still light, which created a firefly atmosphere; the food was so wonderful that I almost began a "Dear Justin" in earnest****.
Now we are back in our hotel room, and PB and DB are sleeping while I try to learnthe countries of the world in order to beat JS, RKe, and PL by displaying my wealth of memorized knowledge when I return (to be fair, I can't watch Jeopardy! over here, and I have to get my dork fix somehow). I am aware that I have not yet written about the afternoon in Milan, but don't worry, stalkers - I'll post it soon.
Night for now -
*Technically it was bound for Rome, which did cause some confusion and create tension among the ranks, but eventually it was determined that it was bound for Rome BY WAY of Florence, which meant that we should indeed board.
**Note that this is not the normal travel scale, but rather the travel with parents scale.
***This usually only happens during travels through Africa.
****I did not because since DI was awesome enough to suggest the restaurant, I didn't want him to think I was making fun of him.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Partner Let Me Upgrade U
I am beginning six days in Milan and Florence with my parents, and the trip is off to a great start. As DB* and I headed to our gate on Tuesday afternoon in Atlanta, he convinced me to try to cut the line with him and board the plane first (he always gets to board first because he gets to fly business class...no wonder he enjoys traveling). I reluctantly agreed, cringing to think of how I would feel if I were waiting in the long coach line with no DB to rescue me, and when the gate attendant told us that we both needed our passports inspected further before boarding I was positive my penance was due. Our passports were thoroughly inspected by a tall woman with taller hair who realized that our last names were the same and asked if we were related and traveling together. I stood and stuttered, honestly a bit stunned that she could read (really, her hair was everywhere), while DB responded that we were. Hair immediately upgraded me so I could sit beside my traveling companion/relation in first class.
As Beyonce asks, "What's higher than number one?"
Well, for a start, I would say two, but to apply what I believe she really means in "Upgrade U" (an extremely classy song with deep and soulful lyrics) is that being upgraded to number one (or, in my case, number first class) is the bee's knees**. And, I have to admit, BK is correct: in first class I was served pinot grigio and shrimp cocktail and salmon and even an ice cream sundae before I extended a chair that could fit at least two LCBs to the "sleep" position (really, they have one of those). It was glorious, except for the fact that this one flight attendant (a brunette, and we all know that the good flight attendants are blondes) kept touching my shoulder and pointing out the window to say, "Look how beautiful the sunset/alps/clouds/crop circles/black night sky is!"
Partner, let me tell you that had I not been upgraded to first class on a flight to Milan, that particular flight attendant would have been experiencing the sunset/alps/clouds/crop circles/black night sky from the plane's wing where she could not continue to wake me up.
Anyway, DB and I had very little trouble finding the Malpensa Express (though there was a moment, of which DB is still relentlessly reminding me, during which I stood for about ten seconds at an empty bus ticket stand trying to buy due biglietti a Milano via treni) and even walked to our hotel without any substantial*** losses or wrong turns. We have sworn off napping but did deign to shower and are now heading out to explore the Duomo, Da Vinci's "Il Cenacolo"****, and Castello Sforzeco.
Start getting excited for what will certainly prove to be my most witty and adventurous blog of all - because the trip is with my parents.
Ciao for now -
*You know I love using initials
**Apparently derived from the phrase, "the be all and end all". Don't act like you haven't wondered.
***We did lose a $2 bottle of water that fell out of DBs bag somewhere along the line, but as Billy Joel reminds us, things like that will occur - "you know it's only just a matter of time".
****Okay, it's the Last Supper, but I wanted to seem cool and Italian.
As Beyonce asks, "What's higher than number one?"
Well, for a start, I would say two, but to apply what I believe she really means in "Upgrade U" (an extremely classy song with deep and soulful lyrics) is that being upgraded to number one (or, in my case, number first class) is the bee's knees**. And, I have to admit, BK is correct: in first class I was served pinot grigio and shrimp cocktail and salmon and even an ice cream sundae before I extended a chair that could fit at least two LCBs to the "sleep" position (really, they have one of those). It was glorious, except for the fact that this one flight attendant (a brunette, and we all know that the good flight attendants are blondes) kept touching my shoulder and pointing out the window to say, "Look how beautiful the sunset/alps/clouds/crop circles/black night sky is!"
Partner, let me tell you that had I not been upgraded to first class on a flight to Milan, that particular flight attendant would have been experiencing the sunset/alps/clouds/crop circles/black night sky from the plane's wing where she could not continue to wake me up.
Anyway, DB and I had very little trouble finding the Malpensa Express (though there was a moment, of which DB is still relentlessly reminding me, during which I stood for about ten seconds at an empty bus ticket stand trying to buy due biglietti a Milano via treni) and even walked to our hotel without any substantial*** losses or wrong turns. We have sworn off napping but did deign to shower and are now heading out to explore the Duomo, Da Vinci's "Il Cenacolo"****, and Castello Sforzeco.
Start getting excited for what will certainly prove to be my most witty and adventurous blog of all - because the trip is with my parents.
Ciao for now -
*You know I love using initials
**Apparently derived from the phrase, "the be all and end all". Don't act like you haven't wondered.
***We did lose a $2 bottle of water that fell out of DBs bag somewhere along the line, but as Billy Joel reminds us, things like that will occur - "you know it's only just a matter of time".
****Okay, it's the Last Supper, but I wanted to seem cool and Italian.
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