Next Step Walks Blog

Water Element Of The Gods

2011-11-21T10:08:00.000-08:00

Plitvice National Park, Croatia

In our travels, we have seen many water elements; from the serene (Japanese Gardens, Portland, Oregon) to the spectacular (Bellagio Hotel, Las Vegas) to the questionable (Center Field, Angels Stadium, Anaheim.) By far the most surprising lies in the middle of Croatia's densely wooded interior and it was created not by human hand, but by thousands of years of playful work by the Gods that be.

On paper, nothing prepared us for the magic the Plitvice Park. Sixteen lakes are interconnected by a series of waterfalls dropping a total of 450 feet over eight kilometers. It hardly sounded like Niagara Falls material.

From the park entrance, you can hear the sound of rushing water but nothing about your surroundings hints at greatness. Low, nondescript hills are covered in thick, deciduous woodlands. This is the kind of landscape we had seen EVERYWHERE in the Croatian interior. A winding path leads down to the largest lake, where you are transported across to the far shore by silent electric boat. I hate to say this, but it's a lot like the journey to Tom Sawyer's Island at Disneyland. Until you get there.

From your first step onto the dock, a world of water encompasses you. It flows everywhere; from ledges above, from small tributaries to the side, underneath your feet. This would be an impossible experience if not for man's one master touch. Since the park's birth in 1949, many kilometers of wooden walkways have been constructed to allow you to glide over, under and in-between the cascades of water.

At first, you wander in awe taking an impossible number of pictures but then, slowly, you begin to appreciate the details. Life is everywhere. Schools of fish congregate in tiny pools. Algeas of many colors colors grow just below the surface. Birds flit from branch to branch. Odd, but this feels more tropical than Hawaii. Many more photos ensue.

What makes all this possible is complicated and takes up many long paragraphs on Wikipedia. It involves a complicated series of small rivers, underground tributaries, dolomitic rock, travertine and tufa sediments. And, apparently, not thousands of years as mentioned above, but millions.

Our feeling was, it doesn't really matter. Plitvice Lakes National Park is one of a kind. After our first exploration, my mind ran to the Grand Canyon, Yosemite and Victoria Falls; places that are so distinct that once visited they will never leave your memory. There is only one thing that Plitvice Lakes has in common with the other destinations we have visited in Croatia. Impossibly Blue Water.

Paradise On The Far Side Of The Moon

2011-11-17T13:22:00.000-08:00

Rab Island, Croatia

It is a blistering hot day and the approach to Rab Island is unpromising. From the ferry, the entire island appears to be nothing but a enormous lump of scalding white rock. It seems the best strategy to enjoy a stay here would be to just jump off the boat now and cool down in the sparkling blue waters of the Adriatic. Resisting this impulse and having docked, my impression does not improve. Now we have a scalding black parking lot to compliment the scalding white rock. The only break on this bleak landscape is a billboard advertising the "30 Rock" disco. Why not turn around and reboard the ferry?

That would have been a mistake. We'd just disembarked onto Croatia's most enchanting island.

Here's the skinny. Rab lies about 200km north of Croatia's most popular island destinations placing it far from the normal tourist path. Split, Dubrovnik, Hvaar and Korkula draw crowds like magnets, leaving the northern coast and islands in a pleasantly sleepy state. The towering mountains of the Velebit on the mainland just across from Rab generate the famous winds the Croatians call "the Bora." These ferocious winds have sculpted the eastern coast of Rab into the lunar landscape I mentioned above. That white wall shields the rest of the island from the Bora. Moving west from the ferry dock, the lunar shield gives way to paradise.

In exact contrast to the barren approach, the entire western half of the island is green. Forests, pastureland, vineyards, gardens; it's everything you would not expect upon arrival. Smack in the middle of it all is Rab Town, the perfect geographical punctuation to complete the split personality of the island.

Rab Town was built squarely on the shoulders of the Venetian trade routes and its architectual influences spread from Italy to Turkey. It is both elegant and simple and above all friendly. The white stone streets have been polished by centuries of wear and shine as if freshly washed.

The town is small enough that you feel instantly at home but, as with the island in general, it has many personalities. You can watch the luxury yachts come and go at the port, shop along the bustling main street, explore the churches of the silent upper town or take a book to the shady village park which is as large as the town itself. Cafes abound and people watching is great. Why would you ever leave? - Because that green side of the island is so enticing.

It is best to take to the water as most of the island's western half is uninhabited. The local skippers know every cove and inlet. They are also wonderful cooks. Under their guidance, it is easy to search out your own personal Croatian paradise. Explore the dense forests, finally jump in that impossibly blue Adriatic water, dine on fish caught moments ago. It has a Gilligan quality about it and I mean that in the best way possible.

Again, that thought. Why would you ever leave?

Eventually, you will want to return to the landscape that was at first so off putting. From water's edge to island summit is a challenging hike but richly rewarded. It turns out that the thousands of acres of white rock serve one of the island's most fundamental purposes. It is the stark grazing land of Rab's sheep population from which the island's distinctive, tart cheeses are produced. The views here are also spectacular; white, blue green for as far as the eye can see.

The tradition here is for each visitor to leave behind a small, personalized pile of rubble, a type of cairn. What from the ferry appeared to be nothing more than a wasteland is actually a vast sculpture garden. It is eerily beautiful.

Back in town, in the evening, Rab springs to life. Cafes and restaurants are bustling. Yachts rest. A band plays in the square. Everyone's dancing. It makes you wonder yet again; why would you ever leave?

The Austrian Cote d'Azur

2011-01-28T15:01:00.000-08:00

Opatija, Croatia

Have you ever dreamed of warm summer days spent frolicking along the Austrian Rivera? Nor have we. Of course we never would have have looked for it in Croatia. Wouldn't have looked for it in Austria either for that matter. Yet, here it is. Twelve kilometers of Viennese coastline just north of Rijeka, Croatia.

There is no other stretch of coast in Croatia like this. What was once a string of sleepy fishing villages became the go to destination for the elite of the Austro-Hungarian Empire in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Here are the Grand Hotels, the casinos, the sumptuous villas and intricate gardens. You can almost hear the violins of Strauss in the evening air. No wait, that's Croatian Techno.

Though Opatija remains a pretty much unknown destination for most of us, it has not lost it's popularity among the Germans and Austrians. After Croatian independence, they swarmed back and millions of dollars of investment have returned a large part of this coastline to it's former glory.

Now this will not be everyone's choice for a week at the beach. That's because there is no beach. Hotels, villas and cafes are perched on dramatic outcroppings of rock. This is no deterrent to seasoned visitors though. They stake their claims with wide, bright beach towels on some of the most uncomfortable rock formations imaginable. At mid-day, it appears as if there has been some horrific disaster at sea and scantily clad cadavers have washed up on the rocks. Still, if the sun bathing is torturous, the cafes are both warm and shady.

For walkers, the Austrain Cote has something that better known Cotes do not, a pedestrian path that follows the shore between all of the villages for its entire 12 kilometer length.

The Lungo Mare path winds away from the road, in front of all the grand villas and through small fishing hamlets. As you wander, you can catch a glimpse of what might find its way to your table this evening.

And where might that table be? That would be in the pint sized port of Volosko. It is perhaps the most humble locale on the coast but it boasts the best restaurants and wines. AND the most tranquil evening view. People have journeyed from Vienna for centuries to enjoy it.

"What's up with that?"

2010-02-04T10:58:00.000-08:00

Lovran, Croatia

"Yes Sir, I see that you have a double room with sea-view and air conditioning reserved. And we have a note that you have a small dog along with you. You have reserved for one night. What's up with that?"

These were the first words that I heard on our Croatian trip and with them, all my previously conceived stereotypes of the county flew out the window. Professionalism, courtesy, humor? This was a good start.

"You'll probably want to check out the Starigrad", he said. I didn't doubt him but to me Starigrad was a town on the island of Hvar, 200 miles to the south and it seemed an odd recommendation. It turns out that Starigrad is a universal word for "old town" and in Lovran they really have a gem of one.

This is the only walled medieval village along this stretch of coastline and an exploration of its twisting alleyways revealed a handful of small chapels, lush private gardens and interesting, if weathered facades.

We settled into the cafe in the main square and a young girl promptly arrived for our orders. At this point, the only Croatian I could muster was "Good day" and "Thank you" so I inquired what might be the best language to converse in. Italiano, Deutsch, Francais, English? Her reply: "Si, Ja, Oui and Yes." Either I had just met the county's most gifted linguist or Croatians are very handy with foreign languages. It's the latter.

It had been a long day. Driving past Lake Como, Milan, Verona, Venice, Trieste and thorough Slovenia, we had arrived. I took a sip of local lager, looked up at the lovely village church and relaxed. The scent of good things to come hung heavily in the air.

Great Expectations? Not always.

2010-02-03T14:46:00.000-08:00

Yugoslavia, 1979

Great travels are usually accompanied by great expectations. Sometimes they fall a bit short but on the plus side, there is often a silver lining to be uncovered somewhere (see my last post.) Or not.

As we headed off to Croatia last summer, I was skeptical of what lay ahead. My expectations were strongly overshadowed by my travels through Croatia and other parts of ex-Yugoslavia in the late seventies.

At that time, Yugoslavia was a drab and unfriendly affair. It felt like something out of an early John Le-Carre novel, a Cold War classic. The people hung at a distance, making me feel like the physical embodiment of the western threat. The language was beyond difficult, the alphabet a cipher. The only English words I remember hearing were "No" and "That is not possible." The National Museum contained two pencil sketches by Degas (even the impressionism was in black and white), two rooms of Greek Orthodox icons and an entire wing dedicated to the life of Marshal Tito. I didn't think I'd be going back to Yugoslavia any time soon and I was right.

So, in 2009, driving past Trieste, I was wondering what sort of changes 30 years and a civil war had brought to this country of which I had such dreary memories. I wasn't prepared for what we found. Low expectations, great travels? It happens.

I'll be telling you about it.

Vagabonding in Assisi

2010-01-28T12:42:00.000-08:00

Assisi, Italy

One more thing about vagabonding. You don't have to turn into a hobo to do it. Sure it's nice to have a couple of months to explore a destination but only students, some educators and insanely wealthy people can swing this. Bill Gates would probably be a great vagabond but he seems otherwise engaged.

For the rest of us, this style of travel can be helpful, even for an afternoon. I recall a visit to Assisi quite a while ago. I was standing in the center of the Basilica di San Francesco, the true focal point of this city of world peace and I was super pissed. Monks and sisters struggled to pray while tour groups bumped into one another, guides spoke above one another and all visitors wore garments of hues not found in nature. The experience was spiritually garish. So, I fled.

Outside the Basilica, I found no respite. More groups, and more guides joined by vendors of all things Assisi (t-shirts, postcards, bumper stickers.) So, I fled again, up a narrow flight of steps. The city almost immediately changed in character, revealing tiny piazzas and alcoves.

Each time I encountered a street filled with leather shops and knick-knacks, I pushed ever higher on the side streets and soon I was exploring a city that had nothing in common with my planned morning excursion. Women enjoyed across the street conversations from their windows hung with fresh laundry. Religious devotees were actually able to find a moment of peace.

I had a nice run there where, for over an hour, I was the only blatantly non-Italian entity around.

A noisy doorway drew my attention. It was a simple bar, without even a sign to mark its place. It turned out to be an Italian classic. There were tables of men playing cards in a very robust manner, slamming down their hands with taunts and shouts. Other tables seemed reserved for discussion (more like argument really.) An Italian soap opera played on an old TV in the corner. I settled in and nursed a 35 cent glass of red wine. I did not understand a word of what was being said which gave the whole affair a strangely operatic quality.

Now I didn't make any friends on this afternoon and it didn't change my life but by abandoning the plan and wandering, I felt like I had found the true spiritual heart of Assisi, city of world peace.

Vagabonding In Life

2010-01-22T13:16:00.000-08:00

Portland, Oregon

On our walking adventures in Europe, the most commonly asked question we hear is "How in the world did you ever find this place!?" This may pertain to a restaurant, a spectacular out of the way viewpoint or a country chapel with perfectly restored Renaissance frescoes. And the answer is, "by Vagabonding."

I recently uncovered my old copy of "Vagabonding in Europe and North Africa" by Ed Buryn and it hit home that just about all of my travels in life were crafted by this book. I don't know if it is just because I was a student at the time with a new continent under my feet and three months with nothing to do but Mr. Buryn's book read to me like the Stone Tablets did to Moses. Despite all the great tips and information encountered here (not to mention classic language of the time; "Dig it. Groove on the vibe!"), the basic philosophy requires but a brief paragraph.

Here we go. When traveling, have a plan. Do a lot of research. And, be prepared to throw out the plan.

Let yourself be guided by what inspires you. If a must see destination is a disappointment, don't dwell on it, move on. If a tiny unknown village somewhere in France seems like paradise, settle in. Talk to the locals. Listen to the locals!

I stopped in Paris once on my way to Vienna. I was invited out with friends and spent the evening talking with a fascinating woman who had served with the Red Cross in Sicily when General Patton slapped that soldier with his glove. Two days latter, I was in Sicily. I didn't learn a thing about World War II on that trip but my meals in Sicily taught me that Italy had a lot more to offer than just spaghetti and pizza. This seems obvious now but my culinary scope was pretty narrow back then. In hindsight, that trip, that food and those gracious southern Italians played a significant role in my choosing Italy as a place to live.

Off to Vienna, settled in Italy. Dig it.

Restating The Obvious

2010-01-22T12:08:00.000-08:00

Portland, Oregon

For the last couple of months, we've been a bit stressed. Just a few extra curve balls that life tosses your way. Medical emergencies with the parents (on both coasts.) Hell, I guess these aren't really curve balls. We should all expect these situations. And we do. But still, when they arise, BAM, deal with it. NOW.

Oddly, all this drama has given me a new appreciation for that very thing which just about all of us do everyday and we do for a living, walking.

I shouldn't need to restate the obvious but I will. Walking is the simplest, most beneficial exercise that you can do. All doctors seem to agree, it's good for your heart, it's good for your muscles, it's good for your blah, blah, blah . . . . Annoying but they're right.

Especially now, while stressed, I savor those 15 minutes or 2 hours when I can step out the door and walk. Whether I have a destination in mind or just let whatever catches my eye steer my course, walking strikes me as free therapy. It never ceases to amaze me what I see while walking that evades my senses when driving or even tooling around on a bike. How can I live in a neighborhood for 20 years and never have noticed that cute Craftsman bungalow nestled back in the trees? Just numb? Maybe, but new details constantly arise even in familiar territory.

Another great thing about walking that surely must be on that doctor's list somewhere is that it allows your mind to do what it needs to do. Sometimes I'll notice details like that one above, or rooflines, interesting plantings, the quality of the kids toys left in the yard, unique new house colors that enchant or unique new house colors that offend. Other times I don't notice anything at all and my mind wanders off in sentimental reverie, to my favorite dining experience in Paris or a Stone's concert in '82. Finally, if I have to address a problem or challenge, walking helps me focus better than if I were sitting in an isolation booth.

I'm starting to sound like Andy Rooney here so I better sign off. But before I do, did you every wonder why they package batteries in those impossible to open plastic containers?

What's New In New York Architecture

2009-11-09T07:30:00.000-08:00

Chelsea, New York

Another great aspect of the Highline Park is that it offers a nice architectural tour of new projects in the city. It shoots you straight north from the Meat Packing district into the heart of Chelsea. For better or worse, this is what will grace the skyline of the Lower West Side for years to come.

First up, we're back at the Standard Hotel. It's brand new and as I said in the previous post, much in the news. About all I can say about the Standard is that it lives up to its name. It does not suggest long hours of feverish creativity and almost looks as if it was tossed off during a lunch break. I believe it would have astonished in 1958. In Cleveland.

Next, the big guns. The IAC building is Frank Gehry's first project in New York and a lot has been written about it. The critics talk of "billowing sails set against the Hudson", "a sumptuous wedding cake" and the "crisp pleats of a skirt". I am starting to tire of Mr. Gehry's work. His art museum Bilbao was really fresh. The Walt Disney Concert Hall in L.A. looked a lot like Bilbao. This one looks like a low energy version of its predecessors. It looks a little lazy, like maybe the contractor screwed up. It also looks like someone spilled milk all over it. All in all, a bummer.

I don't know who designed this one but it certainly stands out. The main idea seems to be "let's get creative with window size". I try to imagine it at night and wonder if it will look fun or annoying. I can't decide.

I used the word bummer above but I've really got to use it now. You've got that nice, elegant structure on the left and the new "addition" just screams out TUMOR. And, it's a tumor about twice the size of the patient.

By now it must be clear that I am pretty much a philistine when it comes to modern architecture. When I look over to the east, I feel the warm glow of nostalgia. The Empire State was once as jarring a structure to the skyline as any of the others I've seen today. Will these new entries have such a lasting impact? That's gonna be for somebody else to decide.

The nostalgia continues.

This one has grown on me. At first I thought it was garish, like a flash bulb going off in the neighborhood but the size and shape are just right for what surrounds it. The reflections are interesting. In the lower right hand corner, it seems that a giant child is screaming for help. Spooky. Fun?

Ok, now this is New York. The size, shape and function blend perfectly. Like the diner above, it's a classic.

Walking The Highline

2009-11-06T12:35:00.000-08:00

Highline Park, New York

New York has a lot of quirky areas but the new Highline Park trumps most. Basically, this is a swath of floating prairie in the middle of Manhattan. At first glance, it looks like a bit of a gimmick but by the time you traverse its present nine block course, it feels like a completely natural and integral part of the city.

The Highline is a 23 block railway bridge built in the 1930's to get freight traffic off the streets. This is an impressive construction and I'm sure it was very helpful at the time but since a train hasn't passed this way in almost 40 years, it wasn't contributing much. Now it is.

Stepping onto the promenade at its southern end at Gansevoort Street, I had immediate criticism for the park's gardeners. A lot of the plantings appear to be dead and the place has only been open for four months! A helpful plaque clued me in on what I was missing. During the years of it's disuse, the Highline became home to a wide variety of wild grasses, shrubs and rugged trees such as sumac. Some smart guy (quite a few actually) thought that the structure's history should play through in the park's design. Hence, not only does the scrappy landscape survive but sections of the original tracks are integrated as well. It gives you an eerie idea of what may remain once we are gone.

The park also covers some fascinating urban geography. It begins in the trendy Meat Packing district. Remember that funky loft that Glenn Close had in Fatal Attraction? It was here under the Highline that she first took advantage of industrial elevators for sex. Back then, meat was still packed all along these streets but now it is a landscape of boutiques for those not suffering in the recession.

Just a few signs hint at the good old days of beef and blood.

Making your way north, you'll notice the new Standard Hotel. Actually, you'll walk right under it. To create a bit of sizzle, the newly opened hotel encouraged its guests to indulge in nasty behavior in front of the guest room's floor to ceiling windows. Honest. It worked really, really well and the neighbors were super ticked and the hotel made a hasty retreat on this innovative policy. I did see a guest hammering away like crazy on his laptop. Basically, anything you do up there will be enjoyed by all.

If you are a bit disappointed that you missed out on the Standard's exhibition policy, fear not. A few blocks up the way in Chelsea, there's a nice billboard of Victoria and David Beckham in their underwear.

Next year, another 10 blocks of the park are scheduled to open, leading you almost all the way up to Penn Station. I look forward to revisiting this lovely new park and watching in slowly grow into maturity.

Walking The New York Marathon: The Finish Line

2009-11-06T06:54:00.000-08:00

Columbus Circle, New York

Leaving the serenity of the Conservatory Garden behind, we're back on the race course for the grand finale. It is a lovely stretch that trots past the Guggenheim, behind the Met and flows through a perfectly autumnal Central Park. I hope that these folks are able to enjoy it.

Though the leaders were long ago crowned and have probably finished up most of their TV interviews, you can see that a good deal of the 42,000 participants are still working on it. It is my first marathon and I was surprised to see that many runners have their names plastered in large letters across their chests. It seemed pretty vain to me. "Look at me! Big, cool guy named Hank, running in the big important race!" Then I realized that this is a tool that allows the crowd to shout out encouragement and we quickly joined in. I tell you, if I were out there, I'd need all the help I could get.

It's another hour before we make it to Columbus Circle where they have thoughtfully erected a giant screen so that the runners have physical proof (besides all that pain) that they are indeed about to finish the race.

I think that the sign below must be one of the most beautiful sights in all the world. I cannot imagine covering 26.2 miles in 2 hours 19 minutes, 4 hours 22 minutes or 13 hours 55 minutes. I would tackle this course with a three day strategy and a list of the great restaurants that line the way.

From a spectator's point of view, I have to rank this event far above the Giro d'Italia which captivated me for a little over a minute. A ramble from Harlem to Columbus circle is worthwhile on any day but on race day its a unique treat. My sincere thanks to those 42,000 that made it possible.

Walking The New York Marathon: Central Park

2009-11-02T11:58:00.000-08:00

Across 110th Street, New York

It is incredible how quickly the mood changes when you step across 110th Street and enter Central Park at its northeast corner. I guess it's no surprise as Bobby Womack wrote the R&B hit about the experience and it's been used in a couple of films, one by the same name. The song was written about stepping in the other direction however, into the grit of Harlem. I'm wondering what type of music would be written making this journey in reverse, probably the Pachelbel Canon.

This is one of my favorite corners of the park. The Harlem Meer greets you as you enter and even on race day, families make the short detour over to feed the geese. A few steps further south is the Conservatory Garden. This is Central Park's only formal garden and it is an insider's tip. Many of the trees and plants that you see throughout the park were cultivated here. The formal layout and ornate statuary of the area never change but the plantings often do. Despite its beauty, I've never seen more than a handful of people in these tranquil surroundings. The woman below obviously didn't come to watch the race.

We did though, so it was time to conclude our brief zen exercise and amble back over to see what the field looks like during the 4th hour.

Walking The New York Marathon: Harlem

2009-11-02T08:40:00.000-08:00

Harlem, New York

Last year at this time, we were hosting a couple of German students here in Queens and I thought that a great way to tackle some of the sights of Manhattan would be to tag along for the last few miles of the New York City Marathon.

On race day morning, just as Duke Ellington suggested, we took the A-Train to Harlem and headed over to the Abbysinian Baptist Church for a little spiritual strength and music. I had no idea what a hot and worldly ticket these services are. The line for visitors resembles a soup kitchen for European tourists. It winds around three corners and all along its length you can practice your French, German, Italian, Russian, Swedish etc.

I could not imagine that the church could hold a fraction of these interesting white folk, so we abandoned this plan and headed over to Silvia's for a quick brunch. Unfortunately, there was no music here either (too early) so we carbo-loaded on grits and finally caught up with the marathon at 125th Street and 5th Avenue.

This has got to be one of the most enjoyable places to experience the race. Wandering down the avenue, the stoops are packed with families and friends cheering the runners along. Every other block or so, there is an impromtu DJ or rapper or band to lend a little rhythm to the proceedings (music finally!) Check out the experience on my pathetically amateurish youtube video.

One thing you'll notice. Marathoners pose a severe littering problem.

New York Preps For The Marathon

2009-11-02T07:40:00.000-08:00

New York, New York

Last week, I trekked into the city to see the film "An Education" which I highly recommend but is far beside the point. Exiting the theater, a few days of rain had given way to bracing sunshine and the urge to wander over to Central Park was primal.

Entering just above Columbus Circle, I stumbled upon a classic New York moment. The finish line of the 40th NCY Marathon had just been put into place and I was fascinated by the attention it was drawing.

Of course there were a fair amount of runners who had every intention (or no hope) of passing over the line on Sunday spurting briskly across it but I was also amused to see that this moment was making its way into someone's Asian wedding book. Interesting to see the beginning of one hopefully long journey taking place at the end of another.

It also brought back fine memories. Last year, I had one of my finest New York walking experiences on marathon day. Narrative and photos on that over the next few days.

Market Day Since 1807

2009-09-30T14:14:00.000-07:00

Munich, Germany

There are many lovely distractions in Munich on an early autumn morning but my favorite choice remains a stroll through the Viktualien market. The name derives from the Latin for food, victuals. And victuals there are aplenty as well as exotic herbs to spice them up, wines to wash them down with and flowers to decorate the table. All on offer as they have been daily since 1807.

When it comes to victuals, I think photos trump words so here is a brief pictorial journey.

Guten Appetit.

Blissed Out In Bavaria

2009-09-30T08:17:00.000-07:00

Munich, Germany

Last week, we finished up our first walking tour of Bavaria and Austria and we were a bit anxious to see what folks reactions were going to be. You can plan every trip to the nth degree but you will never know how the whole experience is going come together until you share it with a group of curious walkers. This trip was especially important to me because I had incorporated a fair amount of my personal history into the trip. Favorite nooks and crannies from years ago were on the agenda.

Hence, when the verdict came in on our new trip, we were a bit more than thrilled. Here are a few comments from our fellow travelers.

"It's the week before the Oktoberfest. Where the hell are all the tourists!?"

"Other than the view of the sea from our beach house, this is the most beautiful scenery I have seen in my life!"

"I never considered Germany a culinary destination but the meals this week have been the finest that I've enjoyed in years."

"Why can't my Italian guy in New York make pasta this fresh? I've got to come to this little valley in Austria to taste the real deal?"

"When did Germany start producing such tasty pinot noirs?"

"We're going to make this hotel our home for many European journeys to come."

So anyway, blissed out in Bavaria, enjoying the bratwurst and beer but also looking beyond them to discover some new and sophisticated delights.

That's All Folks

2009-09-02T08:54:00.000-07:00

Olbia, Sardinia

I'm here in repose in our cabin on the ferry bound for Genova and I can't get the theme music from Looney Toons out of my head. This is not because of some lovely childhood memory. The music was blasting through the entire ship while we boarded and got settled. An odd choice for a Mediterranean crossing.

We departed Savona under the simple and somewhat exotic banner of the Corsican Moor. When we arrived at the docks here in Olbia, we were greeted by an image of Wile E. Coyote seven stories tall, plastered to the side of our ship. Hope his famously poor luck holds until we dock in Genova.

This is a bit of a melancholy sailing. From the peaks of Corsica to the deserts of Sardinia, we were unable cobble together a fine walking adventure. The distances to cover proved too great and fine lodgings too rare. It made for a hell of a fine road trip but we prefer the solitary paths for our explorations and they too were few. Also, we completely failed to uncover the unfriendly and reclusive character of the Corsicans and Sards. They are famous for their scornful and dismissive attitude towards visitors and yet, we encountered only cordial and helpful country folk everywhere.

What a lovely failure.

The Birthplace Of Sardinian Coastal Culture

2009-08-16T03:14:00.000-07:00

Porto Cervo, Sardinia

Ancient legend tells that way back in 1961, the Aga Kahn was aimlessly wandering the Mediterranean in his yacht and stumbled across the picture perfect bay of Porto Cervo. He liked it, he bought it, he built a luxury resort on it and the coastal culture of Sardinia would never be the same. Today, it seems that every perfectly sculpted cove boasts some form of “villagio” where people flock to while away the weeks of summer.

Porto Cervo would seem stunningly authentic if it were nestled between other Italian icons such as The Bellagio, The Venetian or Cesar’s Palace back in Las Vegas. The faux hacienda architecture doesn’t ring true to anything else we’ve seen on the island.

If you’re stuck on Sardinia and need to run out for some quick Prada, Gucci or Patek Philippe, Porto Cervo offers one stop shopping for you. Or, feel free to enjoy a 12 Euro Coke Light in the café in the “piazza”.

Now that Michael Jackson has passed and Bernie Madoff has retired, it’s hard to tell who this spooky place is actually meant for. Reinforcing this impression is the fact that on this beautiful, sun filled morning the “town” is desolate. Upscale shopkeepers loiter listlessly. Gleaming Mercedes taxis are stacked up and idle. No one is enjoying a 12 Euro Coke Light or even an espresso for that matter.

The only activity is the parade of a busload of Italian tourists, following their guide’s bright shiny flag through town as if they were listening to stories of Pompei. If I were an obscenely wealthy person, I’d be a bit miffed that someone let these yokels into my playground.

We miss Oliena.

Pancho Villa Is Alive And Well And Living In Sardinia

2009-08-08T05:35:00.000-07:00

Oliena, Sardinia

Here in Oliena, it seems that the femina agabbodora have modernized. Apparently, “a sharp tap on the head with the hammer” just doesn’t cut it anymore.

I have always heard that Oliena is Sardina’s true spiritual heart, the village where the Sard’s independent, quarrelsome and reclusive nature is most strongly on display. Yes and no.

Visually, these impressions ring true. It is a scrappy place of mostly undistinguished, boxy homes. Some have fallen into disrepair and some look like they were abandoned half way through construction. In the mid-afternoon, the sunny streets are deserted and the strongest human impressions are the dozens of murals that suggest an ongoing revolution. It feels more like Mexico than Italy. The inhabitants are surely an angry, downtrodden bunch.

Once the heat subsides, the streets start to fill. Sure enough, all women of a certain age are dressed in black and scurry along the street with their faces down. Gentlemen of a certain age don their Coppola caps and take their places at tables in front of the local bar. The rest of the population seems like standard issue Italians 2009. Young women roam in sexy halter-tops and young men zip by on their scooters wearing t-shirts that promote the local disco Odyssey Night. The children are loud and very mobile. No one seems particularly oppressed.

We settled in at the bar where a heated debate was in progress. I was curious as to what type of anger was being vented. It was pretty standard fare and boiled down to just two unrelated issues. The youth of today show no respect. And. Drunk driving laws in Italy are unduly harsh.

Viva la revolucion!

Hammered

2009-08-06T08:06:00.000-07:00

Luras, Sardinia

We checked into a lovely, isolated B&B the other night, Lonely Planet recommendation, very nice, my compliments. While chatting with the owner, she said that we might want to check out the Museo Etnografico Galluras in Luras.

I have to say that they have one of the most unusual exhibits there that we have stumbled across in a long, long time. I quote directly from the museum brochure:

THE WOMAN AT THE END

“Gallop through the night to bring death: this was the femina agabbadora, the consoler of the dying in Gallura. The woman would race through the country roads and along seaside paths like a shadow in the night to arrive at the house where someone was dying and give them a sharp tap on the head with the hammer to prevent them from suffering any further. Clothed in black, face covered, the femina agabbadora would enter through a side door which had been left open for her. She would always leave without asking for any recompense but was accompanied by the gratitude of the family of the deceased.”

Oooooooooooooookaaaaaaaaaaaaay. The last documented case of the femina agabbadora was in 1952 but my mind wanders to undocumented cases.

Back home, at the end of our country lane, we locked the door firmly and slept fitfully.

When Things Go Well

2009-08-06T05:25:00.001-07:00

The Gallura, Sardinia

My Goodness. Was it just yesterday that I was sitting in traffic, raging in Sartene? Indeed it was and today has been a stark and comforting reminder that things can also go well. This morning we made our first foray into the Sardinian countryside and from that first kilometer forward we basically just lucked out.

Looking at the map, Donna noticed a large lake not too far inland. In Sardinia, life in July revolves around the sea so we decided to see what was up lakeside. At the Lago di Liscia there was not a soul it sight. Deep breath. Nice.

A fellow at the café back in Sant’ Antonio di Gallura told us to be sure and check out the Olivastri Millenari. What we find at the end of a short dirt road above the lake is the most pleasant surprise of our journey so far. There, in a parched field, stands an olive tree which began to grow in 2,100 BC. The simplicity of this natural wonder left us speechless. Standing alone in the dense shade at its base, your mind cannot help but wander over the vast history this living being has witnessed. The thick and deeply gnarled roots just reek of wisdom. Deep breath. Nice.

The Olivastri’s guardian is a helpful park official named Robbi. He is enthusiastic in recounting his journey to the Pont du Gard in Provence to study other stately olive groves. When we describe our interest in walking, he lights right up. He loves to spend his evenings mountain biking all over the area and has a few suggestions for possible walks (they prove to pan out beautifully.) We also inquire about any special lodgings nearby. “Sure, just down the road, new 4-Star, local chef, rooms decorated by local artisans, panoramic views of the lake.”

Wow, one stop tour organization in the shade of a 4,100 year-old olive tree. We’re going to have to take Robbi out to dinner.

Photo Below: The growth of 2009 on the Olivastri Millenari

Outta here . . .

2009-08-05T07:03:00.000-07:00

Bonifacio, Corsica

I think that we both hit a low point today. I know that a lot of people envy us for having a job that demands that we cruise around Europe, looking for extraordinary locales, enjoyable exercise, unforgettable meals and pampering lodging. I mean, how grueling can that be?

The goal of our Corsican traverse has been the Alta Rocca, a group of villages that nestle amidst thick forests, high up in the hills on the southern part of the island. In the Lonely Planet guide, the Alta Rocca is described as, “Pure magic. Like an addictive drug, once you’ve had a hit of its bountiful offerings, you’ll crave a hell of a lot more.” – Not.

After stomping between villages for a day, we found the terrain surprisingly difficult, views nonexistent, the towns a bit dowdy and restaurant menus dominated by pizza. It was a clear strikeout.

So, on to Sartene. Here’s what we are led to expect. “A slice of the real Corsica. With its narrow alleyways that twirl you unexpectedly into quaint nooks and crannies, its high granite walls and its tall townhouses, the old city will make you feel you’re floating through another time and space. The elegant architecture combines with the natural setting to create an unrivaled ambience.” – Not.

Town fathers have made the mistake of leaving the one main street of the old town open to traffic and cars are parked high up on the sidewalks on both sides of the street making it impossible for pedestrians to use them. The remaining roadway is barely wide enough to navigate through with our car. It’s nerve wracking for us and I feel sorry for the local shoppers who must scamper back and forth between the bumpers of the parked vehicles to let us pass. Of those “quaint alleyways”, I counted exactly eight on our city center map, some as short as 30 meters. It was here, stuck in traffic and making life impossible for those on foot that my soul screamed out for a release from Lonely Planet promises.

Note to the two guys who put this edition together: I’ll have what you’re having. If you ever make it to the mainland, stumble across any Provencale village, enjoy a bottle Gigondas or have a taste of perfectly seasoned Brie, I think you can safely go off your meds. Of, course you won’t be able to write about it because you’ve already used up all your superlatives on Corsica. Note to everyone else: We’ve used LP guides many times and have found them very helpful. This one was a bit of an exception.

One last stop, Bonifacio, at the very southern tip of the island. Bonifacio is full of narrow alleyways that twirl you unexpectedly into quaint nooks and crannies. From the sea, the view of it perched atop its rugged white cliff is unique. It is probably one of the most photogenic villages you will ever encounter. It’s a once in a lifetime experience. ALL OUR SUPERLATIVES.

But now it is getting smaller as the ferry pulls away. In an hour we will be in Sardinia.

The Sweep

2009-08-04T02:12:00.000-07:00

Zonza, Corsica

Someone out there has to be asking why a blog about walking in Europe is spending so much time talking about road conditions. Here’s the scoop. Somewhere down the road (excuse the pun), we hope to distill the essence of Corsica into a week of tranquil walking, spectacular scenery, pungent cheeses and personal interactions with the locals.

In a reverse of the adage that one must crawl before they can walk, in our case we have to drive before we can walk. We call it The Sweep. In the weeks leading up to our lovely ferry departure we scoured maps, web pages and guidebooks trying to form a concise strategy for a discovery of Corsica. From the time we got off the boat, that strategy was pretty much stood on its head. As far as I’m concerned, that is the beauty of The Sweep. Preconceptions fall away and are replaced with stark reality. Must sees become must avoids. Often, areas we have never heard of become our favorite places to return to time and again.

Clients often ask: “How in the world did you find this place?” The answer is by getting lost a few hundred times, asking for help a few hundred times and driving more than a few hundred miles. God I love this job.

Forty Miles Of Bad Road

2009-08-02T01:28:00.000-07:00

Central Corsica, France

There’s that old country western tune, Forty Miles Of Bad Road and just in case you wondered where it was located, it’s right here in Central Corsica. And, it’s more like sixty.

Our guidebook recommends bringing detailed maps and a lot of patience to a Corsican journey. They don’t need to tell you to bring along a great deal of fear. That is supplied for you once you’re here. Corsica tops out at just under 9,000 ft. and has twenty peaks over 6000 ft. The main road down the center of the island seems to incorporate extensive visits to all of them.

Note to civic planners on a budget: Paint white lines down the middle of your bike paths and call them “state roads”. So, now we have narrow. Add to that sheer and impossibly steep. Windy does not cut it. The curves are Madhatter circular and mostly blind. Guardrails are something I kept trying to imagine present. Actually, none of these terms was running through my mind on our four-hour journey. Just, abyss, Abyss, ABYSS, repeat.

Thankfully, we did not encounter much traffic and most of it was visitors like us, crawling along at a handful of kilometers an hour. Only the local, homicidal electricians and plumbers who service the area must be watched out for. These roads are firmly wired into their DNA and I am sure that they could drive them at high speeds, drunk, at night, no headlights, no problem. They seem to have little patience for the rest of us.

In retrospect, I wish I had taken a lot of photos of our Corsican crossing. It was a spectacular journey but I was distracted. The only one I have is the one below, a Corsican roadblock where visitors, electricians and plumbers alike all took a short break.

Full Moon In L'Ile Rousse

2009-08-01T09:54:00.000-07:00

L’Ile Rousse, Corsica

There are two types of settlements in northern Corsica, the sun bleached, hard to get to kind and the sun drenched, colorful coastal kind.

Sun bleached and hard to get to are the hilltop villages of the Balagne. From a distance they are hard to spot. They blend into their rocky surroundings with a chameleon’s skill. Once identified, they are equally elusive. A road sign to Spelonacto indicating a distance of 16 kilometers (about 10 miles) is inviting but 30 minutes later we were still not there. The hike would have been much more direct but involved about 3 hours and 1,800 feet of vertical play. After visits to various tiny villages and hundreds of hairpin corners, they have been mixed up in our minds a bit. Each is sleepy, commands a spectacular view and offers a welcome stop for coffee. There is also a small shop in each, in case you need to stock up on the area’s olive oil, cheeses, wine or pottery.

Back down on the coast, the towns exhibit a bit more variety in character. Calvi is the best known, the most “sophisticated”, the place to see and be seen. After an exploration of the narrow streets of the Citadele which frames the harbor, the Quaiside cafés beckon. Choose your seat facing away from the harbor and you can admire the dramatic skyline of the old town. Or, face the water and watch the yachtsmen compare the size of their members . . . er, I mean boats.

Our hands down favorite destination on the northern coast is L’Ile Rousse. Before dinner, we enjoyed a surprisingly solitary stroll out to the lighthouse, perched on a bright red rock from which L’Ile Rousse (The Red Island) derives its name.

Back in town, life is not concentrated at water’s edge but spreads throughout the old town. It’s difficult to pick a restaurant. They're all equally inviting.

After dinner, we are drawn to the boisterous shouts of the boules players in the park. If you are a robust 60 something, profane and smoke, this is where you spend your summer evenings. The hefty metal balls fly and click loudly, spraying dirt towards competitors. Issue is taken, millimeters are measured and backs slapped.

It’s a fine spectacle and all bathed under the white light of a lovely full moon.

Not Quite Instant Replay

2009-07-31T05:12:00.000-07:00

Chiavenna, Italy

My apologies. As you may have noticed, nothing's been posted for the last couple of weeks. It is not that there was nothing of interest to note. In fact, quite the opposite.

Traveling the hidden corners of Corsica and Sardinia, it swiftly became apparent that wireless internet access is a mainland phenomenon. One hotel had it but I couldn’t get it to work so I walked down to the lobby and had to wait in line behind two other people who were inquiring about the same difficulties. We were all proudly shown the router with its array of blinking green lights. Very impressive. Never got online.

So, down to the internet café. Here, I stood in line while some dummy in front of me wasted 15 minutes trying to figure out the nuances of a French keyboard. When I finally got online, I wasted 15 minutes trying to figure out the nuances of a French keyboard. In the end, I decided to spend my time in more enjoyable pursuits.

Now that we are back and wired in Chiavenna, I’ll be posting the missing chapters of our excellent adventure. Here’s a taste of what’s to come.

The "Forests" Of Northern Corsica

2009-07-13T04:14:00.000-07:00

Foret de Calenzana, Corsica

After a few days roaming northern Corsica, one thing seems very clear. Corsicans have difficulty understanding the term forest. According to our map, we are immersed in the middle a forest at the trailhead of one of France’s most famous hiking trails, the Grande Route 20. According to my optical nerves, we’re in the middle of a Spaghetti Western. Coming from the Pacific Northwest, I may be a bit of a forest snob but I still think that a forest should grow more than shoulder high.

We were looking forward to spending a few hours on the first leg of the GR20 but it is quite clear that even on this relatively mild day in July, we could not carry enough water to take us to the first mountain refuge a few hours away. The mountain spires tower above us but where the Dolomites in summer look invitingly cool, these slabs of similar rock look murderous. Plan B.

Fourteen kilometers away (40 minutes by car) we try our luck at the National Forest of the Bonifatu with much better results. This is still a pretty parched affair but at its core, the Bonifatu boasts something we have not yet seen in the extensive woodlands of the north, shade. And water too!

Our two hour loop takes us up towards that nasty GR20 but blessedly loops back around just as the vegetation crawls back down to knee level. Down under the suspension bridge, there is time for a shady foot soak before retiring back to the sea breezes of L’Ile Rousse.

Night Ferry To Corsica

2009-07-11T04:30:00.000-07:00

Savona, Italy

So here we are at 10:00 PM, standing under the harsh lights of the port of Savona along with a few hundred other confused travelers.

No one really has a clue as to what is going on and it takes an hour before we realize that our ferry hasn’t even shown up yet. Everyone keeps inching up to the dock’s edge to see if there might be a boat in there somewhere and the Italian dockworkers keep yelling at us to move back so that the forklifts can buzz back and forth with ferry supplies. We are an ignorant and anxious bunch.

Then boom, the ferry rounds the bend, docks, disgorges a huge stream of vehicles and promptly takes us aboard. We are sandwiched in so tight that some of us must climb out the windows of our cars but in 20 minutes everyone is settled and disbursed throughout our floating hotel. All the old Corsica hounds head to the bar on the pool deck and order up rounds of Pietra, a slightly tangy beer flavored with chestnut flour. Donna and I head up to the uppermost deck, grab a couple of deck chairs and find a quiet corner from which to savor our departure.

It’s a lovely moment as the boat slowly pulls away from all the industrial bustle. Genoa glitters in the distance and the villages of the Ligurian coastline slowly form a wide string of multicolored lights. And then they recede and for an hour the horizon dims until there is nothing but the black water, thousands of stars and Corsica, hidden in the distance, pulling us towards it.

The Cote d'Azur In Half A Day

2009-07-02T01:56:00.000-07:00

Nice, France

Finishing up a week of walking in Provence is always a melancholy experience. First, we're saying goodbye to a great group of friends and travelers. Also, we are leaving France and returning home to Italy. This means facing a nine hour drive, 60% of which is comprised of Mad Max style highway, popping into pitch black tunnels and then back out into blazing sunshine all the way down the Mediterranean coastline.

A few years ago, Donna came up with a simple and elegant solution. Don't leave France. Break up the trip with a stopover in Nice. I was hesitant. Nice is an enormous, bustling labyrinth, thick with traffic and its beaches are packed with the baking, sweaty bodies of countless nationalities. Yet, this has become one of our favorite afternoons of the year, right up there with Thanksgiving. Here's how we do it.

Exit the Autoroute at the Nice Airport and join the parade of scooters, Citroens and roller bladers down the Promenade des Anglais. In 10 minutes hang a left towards Old Nice and drop the van and the luggage at the hotel (The Hotel Albert le Premier if you're on a budget, The Boscolo Plaza, on the fifth floor, with a terrace if you're not.)

The view from the fifth floor rooms at the Boscolo Plaza. The Albert le Premier is the hotel across the park on the left.

It's now about 2:00 pm and we've been driving since 9:00 so we're tres hungry. We stroll the four blocks into the heart of Old Nice and the Marche des Fleurs and take a shady seat at our beloved Restaurant Le Quai. Le Quai has delicious, straightforward bisto fare at reasonable prices with friendly service and an exquisite house rose.

Now, in the early afternoon, the luncheon rush has passed and most folks are down at the beach. To spend a couple of hours over a late lunch (moules marinieres for Donna, steak tartare for me), watching the activity of the flower market seems to be one of the most civilized experiences imaginable. I took all of the photos below without leaving my seat.

It is a hard table to give up but Old Nice beckons. In these narrow, cool and cavernous alleyways we wander aimlessly and stock up on all of the items we sometimes miss in Italy; fleur de sel, moutard d'estragon and an array of exotic spices from the Far East.

It is now late, late afternoon, the best time to hit the beach. Most folks have retired back to their hotels and only a few families whose kids cannot be coaxed from the water remain. The sound of the surf and the squeals of the children are EXACTLY like the background to the Elton John track "Love Song" on Tumbleweed Connection. It is a nostalgic moment.

After a nap back at the hotel, we head off in search of dinner and the choices are all tantalizing. Indian, Moroccan, Vietnamese, these are all cuisines that we have not tasted since New York. We'll be happy to be back home in Italy tomorrow but in the mean time, the spicier the better!

After dinner, we revisit our steps from earlier in the day. At the Marche des Fleurs, the market is gone and the cafes and restaurants have claimed the entire space. It is swirling with life and makes for extraordinary people watching.

Finally, we stroll back over to the sea, black with white horizontal slashes as the gentle waves crest. We'll be back on the road in the morning but Donna's simple and elegant idea has given us an intense half a day of pure pleasure on the Cote d'Azur.

P.S. I'm writing about these fond memories because this evening we are off to France again, this time to unfamiliar territory in Corsica. I'll be blogging there about Donna's new, simple and elegant ideas as they come to her.

Polenta Polemic

2009-06-24T07:35:00.000-07:00

Alpe Grande, Italy

It is the quintessential Italian Sunday outing. Everyone piles into three cars and promptly becomes separated. This is only a problem because only one car knows where we're going. We drive for an hour surrounded by hordes of dueling motorcyclists and stop at a cafe for an espresso and to phone our buddies who are at other cafes having espressos. With vague directions scrawled on the back of a napkin, we head up into the mountains.

I believe that this road would give Indianna Jones the heebee jeebies. It feels like about a 45 degree incline and it is about a foot narrower than our car with no straight stretches. After 40 minutes of this, my clutch leg is shaking like mad. Hence, I am deeply gratefull when I see our friend's vehicles at the trailhead. All that remains is a one hour and twenty minute slog up to the timberline and the lovely meadow of the Alpe Grande.

All this so that we could eat polenta. Of course, we ARE sitting here.

And we are LOOKING at this.

Polenta is sounding pretty good.

This is not Thomas Keller's polenta, that delicate slice of intricately spiced corn meal hidden beneath a sweet and buttery piece of lobster meat. This is the real deal, a huge steaming bowl of a substance somewhat resembling overcooked oatmeal. I am foregoing a photo because it's really not that appetizing.

Polenta Taragna is the specialty in this Alpine corner of Lombardy. As the corn meal cooks, it is slowly blended with local cheeses and a little bit of butter. The result is a hearty, tangy mountain fare. It is designed to satisfy and to stick to your ribs and it accomplishes both swiftly. It's accompanied by a light, local red and in this setting, the meal seems perfect.

What traditionally follows the meal is what I call the polenta polemic. It seems that after you've eaten it, you've got to talk about it for at least an hour. Which cheese is ideal, Bitto or Taleggio? How much butter and at what moment must it be added? What is the proper stirring technique? A pinch of salt? NO! YES!

As the debate rages, I close my eyes and let the vibrant cadences lull me into the perfect Sunday nap. When the furor dies down, we will have coffee and a grappa and make our way back down the mountain.

The quintessential Italian Sunday outing.

Captain Kirk Reads A Book

2009-06-05T03:55:00.000-07:00

Captain's Blog, Camogli, Italy

I'm very happy to report that little has changed here in this charming fishing village just south of Genoa. There are no chain stores or luxury boutiques and the cafes and restaurants remain firmly in local hands.

In the late afternoons, I like to stroll down to the port cafes and read and watch life go by. Fishermen work on their boats or gather in groups to argue. Mothers faun over their children. Day visitors walk AAAAAAIMLESSLY by. Same as it ever was. Almost.

The 21st century has made its mark in the form of the personal digital assistant. All of the folks that I mentioned above now constantly fiddle with some type of electronic device. Cell phones, Blackberries, Gameboys. I'm a bit miffed. It wasn't that long ago that Camogli seemed more rooted in the 19th century than the present one. Of course, I finally had to give in and get the cell phone but I try to use it sparingly in public and only check emails back in the hotel room. I don't like to feel like I'm contributing to the digital buzz. Quite the Renaissance man.

But now I have a Kindle. Briefly, this is a small white tablet sold by Amazon that allows me to carry all of my summer reading in one tidy packet. No more shlepping books around. No more paying for international shipping and waiting for weeks to get my hands on the trendiest new novel. It's way cool.

Unfortunately, it's also drawing a lot of attention. Fisherman, mothers, kids and waiters; I'm getting "what the hell's that?" stares from all of them and it's a bit disconcerting. If I'm going to be complaining about everyone doodling about with their gizmos, should I also be upping the ante on them?

Perhaps not. I think I may head back to the hotel, grab whatever dog eared John Grisham novel is laying around the lobby and beam myself back to the last century.

Italian Financial Crisis, The 2009 Edition

2009-05-22T02:36:00.000-07:00

Chiavenna, Italy

The Chiavenna Economic Forum (CEF), May 2009

"Italy is broken." says Giuseppe Balzeretti, a respected architect here. "It is financially, politically and morally bankrupt. And, in its present state, it is an embarrassment to the great civilizations that have preceded it." I am paraphrasing here, leaving out a lot of profanity, shortening it by about 12 paragraphs and unable to capture the sorrowful hand gestures that accompany his argument. Still, his point seems clear.

"OK" I respond, "but what makes the present situation different from this time last year when you made the exact same statements? Or, for that matter, when you made them in 1992?"

"Well, this year seems a little better."

Every year when we return to Italy, there is a lovely week when we touch base with people, plant the garden and receive an informal State of the Union address. We are blessed with a fine circle of friends. Besides our esteemed architect, we have a few doctors, a lawyer, a couple of shopkeepers and a pharmacutical representative to help us keep our finger on the national pulse.

It seems to me that the sky has been falling here in Italy ever since I arrived here 25 years ago. I don't think that I have ever heard an affectionate comment about the national government. As we heard above, it's been "bankrupt" for quite a while. So, it always surprises me that I have these doomsday conversations surrounded by laughing friends, fine food and the sound of the fountain in the piazza. If the world's going to end, this is where you'll want to wait it out.

Back in the States, the news has kept us on a pretty steady diet of home foreclosures, massive layoffs, bank bailouts and securities fraud. In comparison, the 2009 Italian financial crises seems like a paradise. Italian banks are incredibly stingy to the little guy. They would NEVER finance 110% of a mortgage (try 50% or 60%). Up until 10 years ago, they wouldn't even give you a car loan or much of a line on your credit card. Hence, most people here don't own large houses, three cars, a boat and a home theater. They may even still live with their parents. What they do have is enough money for nice clothes, good food and a couple of vacations a year.

It seems pretty sane to me.

Money for Nothing. Almost.

2009-05-20T02:47:00.000-07:00

Naples, Italy

This is not a story of Luxury Walking, Wining and Dining. It is a story of greed and addiction and, believe it or not, it's pretty amusing. Too good not to pass along really.

A friend of ours was recently on his way home from Capri and had an hour or so layover at the Naples train station. There, amidst the noise and grit, he was approached by a young man with a duffle bag full of cartons of every imaginable type of cigarette. Twenty Euros a carton or two for thirty. Hmmmm. Closer inspection revealed that these were not your typical Marlboro Lights but rather their Soviet siblings that fell off the back of a truck somewhere in Moscow.

Sin taxes are as high in Italy as anywhere and our friend smokes and he knows a lot of people who smoke so a 70% savings seemed VERY attractive indeed. Also, every Italian knows that these sorts of items all find their way to Naples and that this sort of activity is as close to legal in Naples as tossing a pizza in the air, so the math and the morals were pretty easily resolved. He only had 40 Euros and the guy didn't have change but he was a good hearted soul so he threw in an extra carton instead. One more gift to give upon returning home and a bit of a story to tell.

So, somewhere between Bologna and Milan, he cracks the seal on his Ruskie smokes, wondering how stale they might be. Pretty stale indeed.

Gives new meaning to the expression "coffin nails". Our friend is just happy he didn't also purchase the 60 Euro iPhone he was offered a few moments later.

Live well and stay honest.

The Giro d'Italia Comes to Chiavenna

2009-05-16T07:12:00.000-07:00

Chiavenna, Italy

There is nothing glamorous about international air travel but it’s still a miracle. Thirteen hours after hopping into a cab in Queens, we were lugging the suitcases up our Italian path and into the garden. The fatigue of jet lag adds to the cloudy and magical effect of plopping down thousands of miles and cultures away from the diners and bodegas of NYC.

The garden is serene but down in town the mood is lively as Chiavenna prepares to welcome the Giro d’Italia. The Giro is Italy’s premier cycling event and this is its centennial year. Nothing much has happened in Chiavenna since the Romans left so hosting the finish of stage 7 is a big deal.

I’m no real expert on cycling but Friday’s race looks pretty impressive on paper. It spans 244 kilometers and three countries (Austria, Switzerland and Italy). Beginning in Innsbruck, it is all up hill for the first 200 km as the cyclists rise 1,236 meters (almost 4,000 ft.) to the Maloja Pass just outside of St. Moritz. Then, it plummets 1,513 meters (4,800 ft.) to the finish. It is being hyped as not only one of the most technically difficult stages of the race but also as the most spectacularly beautiful. Lance Armstrong is in the pack so we are pretty excited.

Here then, is Dave’s first and most likely last professional sports blog.

Race Day never dawns on Chiavenna. The clouds hang dense and low, totally obscuring the towering Alps around us. And it is pouring. I’m following the race on the web and the cyclists don’t hit rain until just before St. Moritz. Then it begins to sleet. Donna and I stroll down to sports central here in our little village, the local bar. It is packed though not everyone is entranced by the race.

The pack hits the hairpin corners of the Maloja pass but any strategic manovering is ruled out because of the road conditions. The group spouts dozens of fountains of water as they descend and everyone here is just happy to see that the riders all make it through safely. Michael Rogers of the Columbia-High Road team later commented that he had never been so scared on a bike as he was during those 4 treacherous kilometers.

As the riders pass the Swiss/Italian border, the bar empties out and everyone makes their way down to the main road. I am about to witness a small piece of cycling history. The leader arrives accompanied by the blare of police sirens and we miss him as he is obscured by the press cycle. Bummer. We have heard that the pack is a little less than a minute behind and everyone stares down the gloomy, vacant road.

If you want to know what it’s like to see the Giro pass, look at the photo below and wiggle your eyeballs back and forth for about 17 seconds.

Now stare at this pic for about a minute.

That’s about it. Couldn't figure out which one was Lance.

We wander along the river down into Chiavenna proper and the city is eerily deserted. Everyone’s at the finish line, where the day’s winner is awarded the pink riding jersey. Pink? With all of the vibrant colors of Italy it looks to me like the guy washed his t-shirt with a red sock. The historic color actually hails from the rose colored pages of the Gazzetta dello Sport, the Giro’s original sponsor. Wandering the quiet streets, we enjoy what turned out to be my favorite part of Chiavenna’s Giro d’Italia experience, the Giro themed shop windows. I was especially charmed by the Gazzetta dello Sport wedding dress below, which our friend Lucia created for her boutique.

And today, the Romans have gone and the Giro has gone and the sun has come out and life is back to normal in sleepy Chiavenna.

Fleshing Out The Neighborhood of Flushing

2009-05-11T07:57:00.000-07:00

Flushing, Queens

The next time you take in a Mets game, you may want to show up a few hours early and explore the surrounding neighborhood. Flushing Meadows is home to the U.S. Open and the sculptural ghosts of the 1964 Worlds Fair. On the weekends especially, the park is a buzz of activity. While in most city parks this time of year baseball is the game of choice, here the spirit seems more international with a couple of dozen soccer games in full swing.

Just across the Van Wyck Expressway in Flushing proper, the atmosphere becomes more international yet. This is the largest Chinatown east of California and it is interesting to compare it with its smaller sibling over in Manhattan. Though much larger, the Chinatown in Flushing seems less exotic at first. The sidewalks are wide and less crowded. The archetecture hails from the mid-20th century, not the late-19th. Where's the chaos? Slowly, it dawns on you. There are NO tourists. Missing also are the hawkers of Rolex, Prada and Louis Vuitton knockoffs. It doesn't take long before this starts to feel like the real deal.

Here, it's all about the food. Be sure and stop in at the Hong Kong Market. It is a Wholefoods sized grocery store and a wonderland of exotic ingredients. In produce, there is an entire isle just for different types of choy. Over in seafood, live seabass flop on ice, there is a choice of five different types of live eels and squirming turtles arrive via Korean Air. For those who shun purchasing their dinner living, there are hundreds of different types of tofu products.

Back out on the street, you have to wonder what a dollar will get you. It's seven Chinese characters long which seems pretty descriptive. It turns out that you will enjoy two skewers of satay style pork and no dipping sauce.

Just about every third establishment here is a restaurant and choosing one is daunting because English is one of the things that is not on the menu. Hence, dim sum seemed like a wise choice because you can just oggle and point. We tried, and I can heartily recommend, the Jade Asian Restaurant. It is an enormous banquet hall and it is noisy! It sort of feels like you are attending an Asian wedding. Great fun. And better yet, it's a screaming deal. We weren't starved so we shared six items between the three of us and our bill totalled $11.35. We will be returning for an extended and lengthy lunch!

But now Italy beckons and by this time on Wednesday we'll be back in Chiavenna and shopping for our dinner in more famiar culinary territory. More on that as it happens.

Pastoral Queens

2009-05-07T08:29:00.000-07:00

Ozone Park, Queens

I'll begin where I left off, back underneath the A-Train on Liberty Avenue. As I said in my previous post, life in Queens is a bustling, multicultural experience and usually it is as noisy as it is diverse. It is the classic urban symphony of sirens, trucks, car horns and boom boxes. For most of the year we are pampered by the serenity of the Italian countryside so when we started spending time here, finding a corner of quiet repose was a priority. Happily, a 15 minute walk from the corner above leads us here . . . . .

Forest Park is 538 acres of respite from the bustle around us. Like its more famous neighbor, Central Park, it was designed by Fredrick Law Olmsted and the masterstroke of his his design was to leave 20% of the area virtually untouched. Hence it lives up to its name and offers miles of country paths in the heart of the city. In Autumn, it is easy to imagine yourself in Vermont. Only the hum of the Jackie Robinson Parkway and the occasional roar of a 747 on final approach to JFK keep us mentally in place here in NYC.

I'll finish with a couple of photos of how we spend our time here. We are off to Chiavenna next Tuesday but before that, we hope to sneak over to Chinatown in Flushing for some authentic Dim Sum. We'll keep you posted.

You Can Take The A-Train

2009-05-01T16:56:00.000-07:00

Ozone Park, Queens - April 27th, 2009

During the winter months we wander the great outdoors of the Pacific Northwest and soon, we will be heading off to the rocky slopes of the Cinque Terre but the shoulder season finds us back at the Fabricatore family homestead in Ozone Park. This is the other New York. The one far removed from Central Park, the Theater District or Greenwich Village. The one you're never going to visit.

Though it sounds like it might have been named by Al Gore, it was originally settled in 1882 and named to entice buyers with the idea of refreshing sea breezes from the nearby Atlantic. Hmmmmmm. With the dense traffic, the rumble of the A-Train and its closely spaced houses, Ozone Park today hardly evokes the sea. Still, it does offer an unusual environment for an outer borough ramble.

Architecturally speaking, we are squarely in Archie Bunker territory here. When Donna was a girl, Ozone Park was a straight down the middle Italian/Irish/Polish enclave and happily, a fair amount of these cultural influences remain. Fresh mozzarella, pastas and cannolli are always close at hand. For the most part though, the immigrants have moved on and new ones have replaced them. Queens is the most culturally diverse county in the nation and Ozone Park is one of the most culturally diverse neighborhoods in Queens so there is an unusual variety foods, music and activity. At Joe's Hardware, Joe is long gone and it is now run by a charming and helpful Indian couple. Mike's Place lacks Mike but offers the best goat curry takeout I've had in the city. Our neighbors hail from Columbia, Bangladesh, Guyana, Surinam and Italy. It's a hard working, family oriented mix.

I was surprised to learn that Ozone Park has had its fair share of influence in the arts. Bernadette Peters grew up here and Cyndi Lauper had her first "fun" on an Ozone Park stoop. Check out the florist below. Jack Kerouac published his first novel while living with his parents above the "Shoppe". He used to hang out across the street at Glen Patrick's Pub. I read recently in the New York Times that locals there remember him as the "weird guy who nursed a beer, scribbled notes and didn't like to talk sports."

I'd love to tell you that Simon and Garfunkel grew up here but that would be a few blocks over in South Ozone Park (South Sea Breezes?)

Descending from the subway onto Liberty Avenue always takes me back to the wonderful, gritty crime films of the 70's. I almost expect to see Gene Hackman go barreling by in a beat up Buick. It's not that far off the mark. A couple of blocks away, John Gotti ruled the nastier side of New York from the Bergen Hunting and Fishing Club. Cultural icons pass quickly here though. I tracked it down and it is now a Hindi owned pet grooming salon.