On Friday 5 April after the lovely afternoon in Switzerland, we were on our way back to Genoa, arriving just in time to run to the Carrefour Express before it closed at 8pm. When Brendan expressed all his desires for amazing Italian food, I responded “The best food in Italy is at home.” He told me that, “I want the Italian Restaurants!” He’d heard about Italian food his whole life, but what fails to come across to America is that Italy is a Cucina di Nonna culture, Grandma’s Kitchen, home-cooked, family sitting around the table eating local, fresh ingredients where the flavor really shines. Going to restaurants is actually a rarity, and I’ve noticed that most of the time, even my homemade concoctions are better. This is Italy.
As we did our mad sprint through Carrefour, I think Brendan was beginning to notice that home cooked is the way to go. We got pasta fresca tortellini for a euro, some sausages, and some other ingredients before returning to my apartment to make a quick yet delicious meal. We both agreed it was better than the restaurant food, and we had not even put in any effort.
Sipping on Tuborg beers, we called for a relaxing night in with Netflix, and watched a Bill Murray movie Broken Flowers, which ended up featuring lots of scenes where we hike in the summer in NY State. I could barely keep my eyes open during the movie, and fell asleep exhausted.
I awoke the next morning, battling a sinus infection but happy the sun was shining. We were hoping to go swimming, but the weather was just not warm enough yet – even though it should have been. Brendan wanted to see Milan, hoping for a better impression in the sunshine, but I said, “You haven’t seen Genoa.” He looked at me quizzically, because . . .well, then where were we? But the truth was, we were in the resort area, along the sea. Except for Brignole train station, we haven’t seen the medieval center or the port. Brendan was looking forward to seeing those things and another excuse for a scooter ride.
So, we piled onto Stella and hit the highway, still going slow as novices but gaining more confidence and speed. We rode along the sea by the fair grounds, and parked by the Porto Antico, wandering by the ships and soaking in the vibrant scene in the sunshine.
Next, we walked up through the Medieval Center and wandered into salumeria, Brendan lured by the enticing cuts of meat in the window. He requested a sopressatta and gorgonzola sandwich. When he first tasted it, he said “Ahh, this is the sandwich I have been waiting for.” Brendan eventually got the kinds of food he was hoping for, but they were in unexpected places and usually cheap. “The best food here is under 10 bucks,” he said.
“Yep, that’s Italy.”
After the traditional photos at the Piazza de Ferrari fountain (Blue for Autism Awareness), we had time for some shopping as Brendan wanted some new threads. I suggested Celio, where I bought some things for my brother at Christmas time and thought Brendan might like the style. And boy did he. We spent over an hour searching and trying on clothes, purchasing three pairs of awesome pants, and a couple of sharp stylin’ shirts. The fit and fabric were of great quality and would be much more expensive in America.
Next we found a market where Brendan bought 7 new ties at 5 euros each. The style and price were too good to resist.
Next, it was time to head back to the port and to Stella.
We rode home and Brendan had a chance to ride Stella a bit on his own.
Then we packed, and boarded a train for Milan. Ahh . . . Milan again. Brendan’s flight was at 10:30am, and we’d have to take a 5:30am train from Brignole after calling a cab. To save ourselves the weary stress, we booked a hotel in Milan for the final night, ending up with a great deal at the Hilton for only 80 euros. Fabulous hotel.
View from our balcony at the Milan Hilton
By the time we arrived in Milan, we were super exhausted and opted just for a light cafe dinner before crashing. We had a wonderful journey and as Brendan said, “I have squeezed enough out of this trip. Let’s just rest.” Milan has a lot of culture and events, but it does not really have much to offer for sightseeing.
The next morning, we woke, boarded the bus for Milan Malpensa airport, did a bit of souvineer shopping, and we hugged farewell. I headed back to Genoa, not knowing that Brendan was sitting in an airport lounge with a three hour delay, journalling all his favorite moments and memories from the trip, which he later sent to me.
It really was a lovely time, and I’m so lucky I got to spend this break with a friend of almost 15 years. I hope he gets to visit in the summertime where he can experience Genoa at her best and see more of my Italy (Tuscany, Venice, Capri, Naples?). We shall see.
-Written 27 June but posted in April for timeline purposes. Part 4 of 4.
On the morning of Wednesday April 3, we awoke in Rome for another yummy breakfast in our hotel, featuring fresh-baked cakes, breads, Nutella, cheeses, eggs, cereals, coffee, juice . . . plenty of options for a free hotel breakfast in a country where it is very common to just have some bread and coffee. The sun was making an appearance, brightening the room and our spirits.
I grabbed a few pieces of fruit for the journey, and we headed to the room for the final check out. Farewell Sacre Coure golden statue, the beautiful view from our 6th floor room.
View from our Rome hotel room – taken from my iphone.
Luckily, our hotel was just meters from the Roma Termini Train station, so it was easy to walk and board our train to Milan. It was a super high speed train that would whisk us to Milan in less than 3 hours, a journey that could take a very long time with regular trains. We paid dearly for the ticket, but with limited time and an ambitious itinerary, this was the way to go.
A bit of reading, a bit of napping, passing through gorgeous Tuscan rolling hills . . .Brendan tapped my knee to point out when we were in Florence. “You love this city, right?” I do like Florence, and was especially fond of my recent visit with Kat. Then before long, we were pulling into Milan’s Central Station where were transferred to a packed Swiss train for the Alps. It was so crowded, that even though I booked weeks in advance, we didn’t have seats next to each other — just across the aisle. No problem. Brendan was reading a good book, Umberto Eco’s Baudolino. I had a book for book club, Erik Larson’s Devil in the White City, but I just couldn’t get into that dark world of mystery and terror. I was craving more of light and fun travel writing. Anyway, I was sitting at a table with two Italian grandparents and their charming little granddaughter, coloring and chatting away. Grandpa was kind, and we spoke to each other with my limited Italian and his limited English. Very friendly. And Grandma made sure I was well fed throughout the journey with pizza, foccacia, and other snacks. It made me miss my own grandparents and my own family in general. They were from Recco, a local town nearby on the Ligurian Coast, bringing their granddaughter back to their son and daughter-in-law, who live in Frankfurt, Germany. Maybe she was visiting for Easter? The son was going to pick them up from Basel to lessen the amount of time the girl would have to spend on the train. But she was loving it at this point.
This train ride is one of the most scenic, starting just minutes after Milan. On a clear day, you can see the snow-capped peaks surrounding Milan. We glided right towards them, first stopping in a charming town called Stressa. Stressa is nestled along a lake, and seems like a charming and inviting escape near Milan, and ultimately not too far from Genova. I should go sometime during swimming season.
After Stressa, the mountains grew more dramatic, the lakes bluer, and soon we passed through some tunnels and popped out along Lake Thun, stopping in Spiez. I traveled this same route with my seniors in February for a snowy writer’s workshop perched in a hotel in Wengen, up in the Alpine Peaks of the Berner Oberland. When Brendan said he wanted to see alps, I knew we had to head to that region, and I could think of no better place than my favorite spot, Interlaken, nestled at the base of those peaks between two turquoise glacial lakes, Thun and Brienz.
The air was fresh, the vibe instantly awe-inspiring. We climbed into our last train for a short ride to Interlaken and exited in bright, relaxed spirits. It was sunny and slightly foggy, probably because of the snow-melt. We had arrived in the off-season, where skiers were squeezing in their last runs on the slopes while snow melted in the lower elevations. I clapped my hands with exhiliration and pure joy on my 10th visit to my favorite place in the world. Brendan’s hay fever and jet lag were both minimized and he instantly appreciated the stunning peace and beauty of the region. Even in the off season it was stunning, with both green grass and snow-capped peaks. “Are you happy?” he asked.
“Oh yes!”
The Jungfrau Region. Interlaken is in the valley between the lakes.
We took the short stroll to our hotel, which I had found along the River Aare, a blue green river connecting alpine, glacial Lake Brienz with the slightly warmer castle-strewn Lake Thun. I spent many days swimming in these lakes during summer visits. In my winter visit they were a steel gray, so I was glad to see them back to their vibrant blue.
View from our Swiss Hotel Room, over the River Aare with Jungfrau and paragliders in the background
View from the hotel window
The Beautiful River Aare
Our hotel was actually a few guest rooms above a restaurant. We had a view of the river and the high peaks beyond, including Jungfrau, the highest peak in the region, snow-capped even in August. We were extra lucky with our room because they upgraded us to a spacious suite, and the hotel staff couldn’t have been more friendly. Brendan was impressed with the Swiss Hospitality, and while I had grown to love it from all my other visits, I too was impressed and appreciative.
Jungfrau in the distance
We wandered through the city, touristy but in the good kind of way: friendly shops, adorable knick-knacks, snacks and chocolate, and paragliders floating through the sky in peaceful descent to the big green field in the center of town. Elderly couples strolled hand-in-hand, groups of tourists gazed up in awe, friends and families in good spirits. Switzerland is Peace, Love, and Happiness. Brendan later told me, “Your soul lives here.”
The difficult task of choosing from all the wonderful swiss chocolate.
After some shopping, we went for a walk to Lake Brienz. In this shoulder season, we had the whole trail almost to ourselves as we wandered through the woods, gazed at the majestic water, and passed my swans in Bonigen.
Bonigen
We continued along to Iseltwald, nearing the waterfall when, suddenly, the souls of my 1998 hiking boots literally split and fell apart. The rubber was that old. The boots were not worn away, but I guess that stuff doesn’t last forever.
In such a charming location, it didn’t affect me much at all as I hobbled along, but we decided to turn back, and boarded a bus for Interlaken back in Bonigen, continuing good, animated conversation and philosophy. Then we booked PARAGLIDING for tomorrow. My third time and Brendan’s first. We were going to fly.
That night, we went for dinner in the Happy Inn Lodge, a very special place for me because I stayed in this hostel my first time in Interlaken with my friend Anna the summer of 2001. We had always wanted to visit Switzerland, and spontaneously boarded a night train from Amsterdam when we were unable to get accommodation. We didn’t have sleeper cabins, so we sat in the seats all night and made friends, groggily rolling into town in complete silent awe along with our fellow passengers as the mountains revealed themselves to us. It was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen.
At the train station, we went to the hotel board, saw hotels with availability, picked up the phone, and the Happy Inn Lodge welcomed us. We stayed there, shared some drinks, and enjoyed a splendid stay, my first of many. While Brendan and I opted to stay in better accomodation, Happy Inn Lodge has good beer and food, and was perfect for a peaceful dinner, followed by a walk through town to the outskirts, where I checked on the dance club at the hostel Funny Farm. Closed tonight, but it would be open tomorrow (Thursday). Good Plan.
Back to the hostel where we watched some tv on NBC.com on the iPhone before drifting into mountain-air dreams.
On Thursday morning, we awoke for an absolutely delicious Swiss breakfast in the hotel, including homemade jam, fresh breads, farm fresh eggs, cappuccino, hot chocolate, whatever we wanted. Everything was fresh and flavorful, and again, the staff were super warm and friendly.
We prepared to fly, and a van came to pick us up, toting us to the top of a nearby mountain. I went paragliding that first time with Anna in 2001, and it was the most exhilirating experieince of my life to that date. It was summer. And it was summer when I went again with my friend Krista in 2006. Now in 2013, I went for my third flight in early spring. They suited us up in helmets and our seat, attached us to our instructors, and I snapped some photos of snowy mountains and the grass making her spring appearance.
Before long, Brendan was running down the hill then AIRBORNE. I was so exited for him because I can never forget that first time you are flying, feet dangling in the sky among the birds and trees.
Then I ran down the hill, and shortly after we were in the air, my instructor had me take the controls and allowed me to steer and fly a bit. “You’re ready now. It’s your third flight.” He explained that I could take flying lessons in Interlaken, spread out throughout the year, or in an intense two week course with several flights a day after some ground training. Once you are done, you can buy the equipment (used) for about 1200 CHF. “At that point, it’s a pretty free hobby.” Something to really think about. There is no feeling like it.
Brendan flying
The flights always feel too short because before long, I was spinning to the ground in dramatic dips and curves before a soft landing. Brendan gave me the thumbs up, clearly high from the adrenaline.
I was so excited to see him feeling better and truly enjoying the trip at this point. Yay Switzerland!
We packed our bags for the mountains. According to my iPhone, it was in the teens and 20s up in Murren and Wengen (two sides of the valley). I took him up to Wengen, where I was just visiting with my high school students in February. We hoped the roads would still be snow-covered for some tobogganing. We also packed our swimsuits, eager to use the spa at the Hotel Lauberhorn, where my dad and I stayed in the summer of 2011.
We took the train to Lautberbrunnen
then boarded the cog railway up the mountain to Wengen as Brendan gazed in awe. The alps are impressive from the valley and even flying. But we were going way up into them now, and the views were dramatic and ever-changing. When we exited the train, it was clear that the iPhone was wrong and the snow was melting, so we put our bags in the locker, stopped in the Coop where we found some Duff beer, yeah Duff, and went on a snowy/muddy hike up the mountain. We stopped at a bench on the edge of the woods to just be. It was the most peaceful, wonderful moment of the trip.
Then back down to Wengen where we enjoyed traditional Swiss food. We ordered fondue with herbs and rosti with eggs and cheese. A hearty mountain meal where I ate with both my father that summer and my students in the winter.
We were saddened to learn that the Victoria Lauberhorn was closed for the season (we missed it by a couple of days) so we couldn’t use the spa, to our dismay. We enjoyed a bit more of Wengen.
Then we took a train back down to the Lauterbrunnen Valley and had enough time to walk to the famous waterfall before our train to Interlaken. I thought with all the snow melt, it would be more impressive, but it was just a well-lit trickle.
In the summer, it’s a raging, rushing waterfall. However, it was still beautiful and impressive. Then back to town where we prepared to dance.
We walked to the disco club, which was quite empty when we entered. Brendan felt slightly uncomfortable and asked what I wanted to do. I said, “We are gonna dance.” We tore up that dance floor, and soon others joined us. It was a lovely, fun night followed by a nice starlit walk back to our hotel for another sweet mountain air sleep.
The next morning, we did not want to stress ourselves unnecessarily with an early train. We were woken up in the most swiss way possible. I heard a cacophony of metallic sound in the street. What was this? A bunch of metal wheels? A truck? I went to the window and saw the road filled with a parade of cows donning giant bells. They were heading somewhere. I had to wake Brendan up to see this special site. It truly made my day.
Back downstairs for another delicious breakfast, sad that we couldn’t stay another day or two. But we were lucky that we had a few hours to enjoy Interlaken before our train. I went to get my Jowissa watch fixed, and we rented a tandem bike, heading through town and back to Bonigen and my swans.
Tandem Bicycle
What a new, fun experience! The guy at the bike shop was super talkative, friendly and informative, and he gave me tips for my future visits, knowing I like to come so often. Apparently, there is a special camping hut in the back of the Lauterbrunnen Valley (below Wengen), where you can have a nice, peaceful time.
Time was unfortunately running short, so we had to return the bike and grab our bags from the hotel, where we passed the Cow Parade going back from whence they came this morning, perfect bookends to our final day in Switzerland. We grabbed sandwiches from the supermarket, then boarded our train back to Genoa. It was a wonderful stay and always sad to leave, but we had a fantastic time. Brendan said, “I don’t want to steal this as your favorite place . . . but I love it.” Yay Switzerland!
-written 27 June but posted in April for timeline purposes
Easter Monday, we woke early when it was still dark. Brendan’s hay fever had taken full hold, and I found some Aleve and Claritin to give him to help him breathe a bit better. However, it was a mostly sleepless night before we groggily got ready and headed for the bus to Brignole station. Off to Rome!
I was a bit apprehensive after checking the weather all week. Rome — usually sunny and beautiful in the spring, was showing a soggy forecast. All of Europe seemed to be stuck in unseasonably cold and rainy weather. My students and colleagues told me that it was usually possible to swim this time of year. I felt so guilty because I had told Brendan it would be a good time of year to visit. But all of this is part of travel.
I checked my transit ap to see when the next bus would arrive at our stop, growing a bit nervous because it looked like it would cut it close. “Should we take a cab?” I asked. “Whatever you think is best,” he said. I decided to take the risk. The bus dropped us off in plenty of time, we got to the platform, and as the sun began to rise, we saw our train was delayed. “Good thing we didn’t spring for the cab,” Brendan said.
Now we both felt like zombies. It was cold and quiet as we waited for our train, moods tense. I felt like I was on an episode of Amazing Race . . . these things happen. And with both of us tired from long workweeks, we both just needed some peace. I was hesitant to book such an early train, but this was just over 4 hours instead of 7 hours, and would give us more time in Rome.
Eventually we boarded, and napped our way along the Riviera and down the coast to Rome, pulling into the station around 1pm. It wasn’t raining. In fact, the sun was shining! Brendan was finding it impossible to breathe and still feeling epic jet lag, but we both knew we had to get out in the sunshine for some wandering before the downpours. We dropped our bags off at the hotel which was right by the train station, then saw the Colosseum, The Forum, and other iconic landmarks.
I had a Frommer’s Rome Travel Guide, but instead of trying to navigate to one of the suggestions, I figured we’d pop into one of the little cafes on a side street. The food was ok, but mediocre and didn’t impress me or my foodie friend. The price wasn’t too bad, but I knew that Brendan was waiting for some mind-blowing Italian food. Having been spoiled by years of Arthur Ave (Little Italy in the Bronx), featuring the best of all of Italy, he may have been expecting all of Italy to be like that. In addition, Rome is known for many things, but not necessarily their cuisine, especially for lunch.
We found a pharmacy where, hurrah! they gave Brendan some antihistimanes that helped him breathe with sweet relief. He took a long nap, then we wandered out again at dinner time, once again finding a disappointing dining experience. Mediocre and slightly expensive pizza. “It’s all pizza and pasta, everywhere,” he noted. Yeah . . .
Toting my takeaway Quattro Formaggio, we looked at the tourist map, trying to find the Ice Bar. The winding backstreets of Rome were quaint and a bit empty due to the holiday. If it wasn’t cold and rainy, it would have been more enjoyable but we weren’t really feeling the scene. We wandered into the Ice Bar, where we were the only folks. “Come back tomorrow, for open bar for 20 bucks. There will be a crowd,” they advised. Sounded good, so we left and tried a few other places, but couldn’t find a seat or a good scene. We eventually ended up sitting at the bar of an Irish Pub, talking to the Australian bar tender over Guinesses. We walked home past the ruins lit at night as Brendan entertained me with his comedy.
Tuesday 2 April, we got to sleep in a bit, waking up just in time to head to the free breakfast upstairs in a sunny room. There was good variety as we woke up and hoped the rain would hold off. We had “Skip the Line” tickets to the Vatican. For a nominal fee, you don’t have to stand in line for hours. Perfectly worth it.
We took the metro and arrived, wound our way through the halls filled with art, peeked out the window at a massive thunderstorm, and eventually found our way to the highlight of our visit, The Sistine Chapel. This was my third visit to Rome. Both other times, I had been on EF Tours. 1997 as a high school Junior and last year as a teacher, bringing my own students. in 1997, we were not able to get admission to the Sistine Chapel, which was a major disappointment. Last year, we did get to go, and I found it to be so moving and one of the most amazing works of art I had ever seen. This time, it actually brought tears to my eyes. It was less crowded than our Easter time visit last year, and I didn’t feel squished and pushed through the room while trying to look up and enjoy. I could really take it in and absorb the wonder as it was meant to be appreciated. Splendid.
The ceiling in one of the main galleries
Thunderstorm as viewed from one of the windows
Brendan identifies with Mercury and even uses the symbol for his brand, as seen on his shirt.
Upon our exit, I went into a little gift shop to get pink rosary beads for my great Aunt Minnie. We almost left the premises to get online for admission to St. Peter’s, which we had to do last year. That line was winding around the giant square. But first, “Let’s just pop into that pretty chapel,” I said, peeking through a door featuring lots of marble inside.
We walked in and Brendan immediately said, “Wow!” This was not some little chapel . . . it was St. Peter’s, and we had entered without a line.
St. Peter’s Basilica
We went straight to Michelangelo’s gorgeous Pieta, and I explained how someone had smashed it in the 70s, so it doesn’t have the original glow, even though it was carefully repaired. It’s still amazing.
The Pieta
We wandered around, and Brendan was excited because he got to “see a dead pope!” in one of the many tombs.
After some pictures and prayers, we exited into torrential rain. First I sent my parents and my friend Kat postcards with the Vatican postmark.
Welcome to the new pope.
Where to now? Rome is enjoyed by wandering, walking and soaking in the beauty — not by actually soaking. It was so disappointed because last Easter it rained a bit, but we had a sunny day that was just splendid. To stay dry, we hopped on the first tram we saw, and figured we’d go on an adventure, not knowing the destination. En Route, we skimmed Frommer’s for ideas for aperitivo later. We stopped for gelato and saw this:
Viagra Gelato! ha
Eventually, we made our way back to the hotel, cold and wet, and each had a warm bath trying to get our body temps back up. When we departed for dinner, we had plans to head to the Ice Bar, then the Disco after, so I took a small purse and no guidebook. We headed to Spagna, the neighborhood where the Spanish Steps are, and wandered in the rain until we found an amazing, trendy cafe with stadium seats for chairs.
The Spanish Steps
There were tiny snacks for aperitivo (that came out with our wine), then I ordered Ceasar Salad and Brendan got meatballs and some pasta. The meatballs were absolutely divine, and as much as I try not to eat lamb, we think there must have been some inside. “This is the pasta I’ve been waiting for!” Brendan exclaimed with pure joy, finally having found the Italian meal he’s been craving.
Next, off to the Ice Bar, touristy but fun. Again, we were the only ones there as they draped us in capes. Nobody looks good in a cape. We waddled into the icy room and settled into a little igloo, drinking our vodka mixed drinks out of ice glasses. While we waited for others to arrive, I noticed some glasses left behind and began smashing them like a disgruntled wife. Eventually, a bunch of college-aged kids arrived, and we made small talk. We each had 5 or 6 drinks, and there’s only so much time you can spend in the ice bar, so we waddled on out, but not before taking some photos that made us look like Bond villains.
Drunk on vodka, we were too beat and money conscious to spring for the disco, so headed for the hotel and Brendan wandered into a kebab shop for a late night delicious snack. Tomorrow we would depart Rome for the Swiss Alps!
We didn’t really get the best vibe from Rome or give it the best chance, but we saw it. I had visions of visiting the fountain of Trevi, Trastevere, drinks in piazzas, wandering along the Tiber, maybe even a boat cruise. The weather was a real damper. I felt bad and almost responsible, but Brendan reminded me to relax and that he was not mad. (Although clearly disappointed). Rome deserves another chance with more time and better weather, but we enjoyed our mini adventure. This is all part of travel, and overall, it was fun and we saw a lot. 🙂
One of my best friends, Brendan, has always wanted to visit Italy. When I got the job offer last January, he already started talking about his visit. We decided on Spring Break, so I could be the female Rick Steves, and take him around my beautiful local hood as well as Rome and the Alps, as he requested.
Our spring break began on Friday March 29, which gave me a day to chill and take the train to Milan. Brendan got the shortest and best airfare to Milan, arriving at 7am on Saturday March 30, Easter Eve. Since I was off and eager to enjoy the city, I said I’d meet him at the airport. I booked a single room at the Bio City hotel, an eco friendly, brand new hotel that was just before its official opening. At this point, I let out a big “Ahh” as I looked around the cozy room. The weather was not cooperating, with a chilly drizzle, but I was just glad that my much-needed vacation had started. For teachers, breaks always come just when you think you can’t handle another day. I checked the mini bar, and for reasonable prices, I saw natural soda and super yummy sesame seed bars, which I devoured while watching BBC news. I tweeted a couple of pictures and fell asleep knowing I had to wake early tomorrow to get to the bus for the airport.
Brendan walked through the gate, and I ran to give him a hug, amazed at how guys can pack all they need in a little carry on duffle bag. Well done. The weather was cloudy, but I was hoping the rain would hold off. We caught up on the bus ride, then by the time we arrived in the city, the rain turned into a downpour. Luckily, I still had the hotel room, so we had it for a few hours where I figured Brendan could take a nap and I could enjoy my free breakfast. As soon as he passed out, though, they started drilling. (They were still working on the hotel, so I knew this might happen). He managed to fall back asleep . . . until the belt sander came on. “We’ll find this funny later,” he said. But clearly not now. The poor guy was exhausted, having not slept on the plane. So I went outside and asked the guys if they could move, which they so kindly did.
At 11, Brendan was in a sound sleep but I had to rouse him for check out. “You said I could sleep,” he said like a school boy talking to his mom, wanting to go to school late. I know the feeling. I remember telling my mother, in my sleep, that “The lake is closed today,” when she tried to wake me up for my lifeguarding job and I knew I just couldn’t make it.
I felt so bad, but I had to get him, up. We checked out, and luckily they didn’t tack on a fee for bringing a second person into the single room. Then we had to brave the rain again. We originally considered the thermal spa, which I love and have posted about before here: My New New York . But it was not the weather for wandering or sightseeing, so we boarded a train for Genoa, gliding through the soggy landscape to Liguria.
2 hours later, we boarded a bus to my neighborhood as exhausted zombie Brendan said, “How much longer?” It might be initially more convenient to fly to Milan, but ultimately it’s a big pain in the butt, unfortunately. Once in my hood, we had to find food. As it was the day before Easter, nothing was open, so we walked through the hills for 10 minutes to Jungle Pizza, which is always open with its 100 varieties. But alas, even that was closed. Back to my apartment where I offered some of the food I had purchased and Brendan passed out into a deep sleep. I used this time to go on my second ever scooter ride!
The clouds cleared, the sun came out, and I enjoyed stunning views over the sea as I tried to keep steady and not tip over. Back at the apartment, I had to wake up Brendan again, afraid that if I didn’t he wouldn’t sleep the night. Arrival day is often very hard, especially when the weather is not helping. Starving, we walked down the hill to restaurants by the sea, looking for something open. He gave up meat for Lent, so we went for some pizza or pasta at 5 Maggio, a place I had enjoyed many times, along the sea by the monument. We shared pasta, cooked in foil in the brick oven, foccaccia formaggio and one other kind of pizza as well as creme brulee for dessert.
Brendan wanted to meet one of my friends, and I wasn’t sure who was in town but remembered that Robin was both in town and nearby. At 11pm, I called her then we showed up at her apartment (with its splendid castle view), and got her ready to go out dancing down by the sea. At that time, Brendan felt it was time to ditch his Lenten beard, so Robin lent him a disposable razor. And off we went.
The club was fun, and unlike some of the other ones further downtown, where guys like to come up and grab you while you are dancing, the people were older and a bit more chill — but the vibe and music were great. We even got free shots from the bartender because we were from NY! 🙂 We walked Robin home, then up the hill to my apartment where Brendan realized it was Easter, running to the fridge and tearing open the packages of cured meats I had bought for his arrival.
Easter Sunday bells rang at noon, but Brendan was still sleeping off his mega jet lag. He had tried to warn me it could get like this, but I had never seen jet lag this bad. Around 1:30, he woke up and we tossed the football-sized Easter egg that I bought for a charity fundraiser at school. It broke to reveal the gift inside — a boxed silver-toned bracelet. Not bad. Apparently, these chocolate eggs are very popular as Easter treats for kids.
Soon we went outside into the warm sunshine for one of the prettiest days of our trip. Buona Pasqua!
We piled onto my scooter for my third ride, and my first ride with a passenger. Once I mastered the weight balance, we took it nice and slow, heading straight to Nervi. It was Brendan’s first time on a scooter, and he was thrilled. Once we parked, we went for a walk along the gorgeous passageiatta — bright turquoise water, waves crashing into the jagged rocks, Portofino in the distance, and families and friends, tourists and locals strolling along for a Happy Easter. The vibe was perfect. The flowers were blooming, but unfortunately so was Brendan’s hay fever. We didn’t let it get in the way of our fun, though.
Happy Easter!
We did not have reservations for dinner and were worried about finding quality food on a day when so many locals head to the restaurants. Luckily, even though we were in Italy, both of us were craving sushi, so we planned for that. While we were waiting for the restaurant to open (Many places in Genoa open for dinner at 7:30 and close by 9 or 10 for a small dining window), we wandered through gorgeous Nervi, through a local park watching families with their dogs, bacci balls, and picnics. Then we found a little church on top of a hill and decided to see if there was an evening mass. We walked in sometime near the beginning, and enjoyed a special, beautiful Easter service.
The sun was starting to tinge the sky pink, promising an awesome sunset. I regret not heading back to the passegiatta because I know Brendan would have appreciated it, but we were already at the restaurant, where we enjoyed a lobster roll among some others. As Brendan gave up meat for Lent, he also gave up sushi, so this was a treat. And for me, who was growing quite sick of Italian food, I was happy for the change of pace.
Back to the scooter and home to prepare for tomorrow’s trip to Rome! The fastest train was at 7am, so it was gonna be another early morning for us. I popped Mad Men on Netflix, and we enjoyed a chill evening.
Here’s a small slideshow with more photos:
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–to be continued in Part 2 – Roma–
-written 26 June, but posted in April for timeline purposes
My great friend Brendan McGinley wrote a touching and beautiful piece on Mister Rogers, just in time for his 85th birthday and the 10th anniversary of his passing.
The article brought the comments section together in love and tearful unity, where even the crankiest trolls were misting. A Cracked.com member created a petition to make his birthday a national holiday: March 20th – Rogers Day. Celebrities such as Alyssa Milano retweeted the article. Milano actually has the whole show on DVD for her son.
I read the piece a few times, with tears in my eyes, watching the embedded media that brought me back to my earliest memories, to the years that shaped me, and I realized I’m so much of who I am because he was my neighbor. I was filled with a warm and fuzzy feeling, and that night I had sweet dreams, taken back my childhood. My childhood was love. I need to make sure that my adulthood is love as well, even when in a world where hate is often revered.
I grew up on Mr. Rogers in the early 80s. Sure, I liked Sesame Street and 3-2-1 Contact and My Magic Garden along with a handful of other classic educational kids’ shows, but my favorite was Mr. Rogers. My mom even used to explain time to me in terms of episodes. “Your nap will be two Mr. Rogers.” “We are only going to be here for one Mr. Rogers.”
I didn’t realize why at the time, just that I looked forward to his changing his shoes and cardigan, seeing King Friday and Lady Lane, and learning about the world through his helpful videos. Although I hadn’t seen it in decades, I remembered this crayon video with almost total recall:
‘Hi Neighbor!” It felt like he was talking to me. He was my friend. And I had a sad feeling when he dressed to leave, but I knew I was loved and I would see him later. Luckily, I was raised in a family overflowing with love, and I had the added bonus of growing up in a time where there was at least one show on TV that made sure I knew I was special, with no gimmicks, no merchandise, no ulterior motive other than to love. Like Morrie says in Tuesdays with Morrie:
“The most important thing in life is to learn how to give out love, and to let it come in. Let it come in. We think we don’t deserve love, we think if we let it in we’ll become too soft. But a wise man named Levin said it right. He said, ‘Love is the only rational act.'”
I try to live a life of love, following the Jesuit motto of “men and women for others.” This is a wonderful reminder to make love a priority.
Reflecting on Mr. Rogers as an adult, I can see the dichotomy between the way I was raised and the way society tells me to live now. The media and our peer groups often want us to harden, to be sarcastic and tough and snarky. We are taught to be selfish, not in the “you are special” way of Mr. Rogers, but in the “I will get mine or else” way. Relationships are disposable. If a friend or lover doesn’t do what you want, give ’em hell. We are criticized for giving selflessly, for forgiving too quickly, for being too “soft” and devoting our lives to others — and for loving everyone for exactly who they are, not trying to make them who we want them to be. In our age of self-help books and photoshopped models, of people who are told they must go to college in order to be anything, that they must earn this amount of money, buy this house, live here, wear that, find this funny, get this hairstyle and this surgery, be this sexy, do this and that . . . how nice to think that someone might actually like you for you. Just as you are.
Bridget Jones’s Diary gave it a go:
Remember, love is all you need.
We all know the original, right? Well, I think this version is lovely as well. The whole movie was made with so much love from the cinematography to the music and voices — it really moved me. I like to be moved. In a world where we are all “too cool” to feel, I’m proud to be a feeler. And from reading the comments section on Brendan’s article, I am not alone. Mister Rogers was a role model in the formative years for generations of children. Somewhere inside, after years in the neighborhood, we were cultivated with loving, caring, empathetic hearts. We can be helpers.
After the Newtown shooting, like many others, I was seeking some kind of solace in a dark, bleak word. Shuffling through the facebook statuses and updates, the one that really spoke to me was a quote from Mr. Rogers along with a touching photo. I blogged this back in December.
“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ To this day, especially in times of ‘disaster,’ I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers – so many caring people in this world.” — Mister Rogers
His love was so genuine – just look at the beauty of that photo. Everyone reacted to him, even Koko. Watch the clip in Brendan’s article. I don’t want to spend time here rephrasing or repeating what Brendan compiled so eloquently. I’m just reacting to it, because I have been overflowing with emotions in a very good way.
When I was telling Brendan how much I loved his article, he said that the response has been overwhelming and he just wants to “stay out of the way and let his accolades flow.” Fred did all the work. “Fred is love,” he said.
I was lucky to grow up in a family that, flaws and all, was also love. I try to pass that love on to my students, to my friends and family, and hopefully will be able to share that love with my own children one day.
I conclude this rumination with gratitude. Gratitude for Mister Rogers’ ministry, gratitude for all of the wonderful people in my life in the states, here in Italy, and all over the world. I’m grateful for the amazing and happy childhood I had, where I could play with my dolls, color, run outside with my brother, and then back into the loving arms of parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles who made sure I knew I was loved. I am flooded with memories of Yahtzee and Boggle on a porch of a New Hampshire cabin, of baking with Grandma and licking the icing, of her holding my hand at night when I was afraid of the big bad wolf in Granny’s country house. Memories of walking to the newsstand with Grandpa for a pack of m&ms each day, even though there was half a bag sitting in the fridge from yesterday’s walk. Memories of Mom reading to me and Rich, both curled up on her lap. Memories of nightmares and tears, soothing songs, cuts and scrapes, band aids and ice cream cones. I remember Dad following us around with the movie camera, trying to document everything, and Mom making sure that — no matter what — we sat together around the kitchen table for dinner. I grew up with everything I ever needed because I was loved, and somewhere there is always a part of me sitting in front of the TV singing “It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood.” Even though I’m in Italy now, I’m still in the neighborhood. 143.
Ciao! I bought a scooter! Finally. 🙂 I am so grateful for my administrator and his wife who took me out to a few shops this morning to finally get my scooter. Like many Italian cities, scooters are super practical in Genoa whereas cars are an expensive pain in the bum, leaving you broke and without a place to park. Meanwhile, a scooter can zip you around the tiny, winding roads and up and down the hills or along the coast, with easy parking options. Unlike flat Florence or Rome, though, Genoa’s mega hills require some more power and fatter, bigger wheels, so Vespas are a bit unsafe although classically sexy. It’s ok, this scooter will still work for the European Dream Eddie Izzard describes in his comedy.
Now I can be all like, “CIAOOOO!”
I got a Yamaha 125 cc, which is less problematic with a US license. She’s an oldie, but I love her. I knew she was mine when I saw her, and the price was about half of what I was prepared to pay. I worked after school for two days a week last semester, which gave me enough money for the bike. But now I can afford both bike and insurance without scraping the bottom of my sickly bank account. Like I said, I won’t get rich, but I’m living richly.
I have her just in time for the spring and summer weather that is arriving soon. 🙂 Fun, fun, fun!
Cogliere l’attimo. Carpe Diem. Sieze the Day. No Regrets.
When I departed for Genoa, one of my best friends Kat was there at the airport to send me off along with my parents. Kat gave me lots of luck and hugs, and said “I’ll be there soon. I’m also good with postcards.”
Kat kept good on both promises, with postcards arriving frequently to brighten my day and a whirlwind weekend visit planned. In the fall, Kat called and said “I can’t get much time off from work, but I’m coming. Alitalia has good fares. How about March 1st?”
Kat arrived fresh from JFK on a Friday and departed on Monday morning, for a fantastic, fun-filled weekend adventure. What perfect timing. Work was at its most chaotic of the year, with International Baccalaureate assessments and paperwork due — super high stakes work. As this was my first time through it, there were a lot of nitty gritty details and stressful aspects (work to be redone, late work, formatting) that I didn’t anticipate. All of us IB teachers were like zombies walking through the day. Usually, Friday arrived and I was relaxed and peaceful with a light schedule, all classes completed by 11:30. When Kat arrived from the airport, I was in a meeting with a student, and didn’t even have a minute free to run down to the office to notify them of Kat’s arrival fresh from the Genova airport. Luckily, she met the director who asked around and found me. When I exited the classroom with my student, there was Kat’s smiling face. How can she look so awesome and fresh from an overnight flight? Amazing.
Originally, Kat said she was up for anything and just wanted to spend time with me. But this was her first time in Italy. She was also a Medieval Studies major (along with Spanish), so I knew she would appreciate a lot of the wonder of Siena and Florence. In the days before her departure, I said, “I have a crazy idea. Want to spend a night in Siena? It’s beautiful. Then we can visit Florence before heading home on Sunday.” When I saw that the train to Florence stopped in Pisa, we planned for that as well. 3 nights, 4 cities. And we did it!
I gave Kat a quick tour of the school, which she noted was beautiful. She also asked, “How do you like it with all the little kids?” As a group of 3-year-olds walked by in a neat little line like ducklings. “I love it. It always brightens my day,” I responded. The director had generously given us lunch tickets to enjoy a meal in the cafeteria. I had hallway duty upstairs for the first part, so Kat took the opportunity to meet many of my coworkers, noting that they were extremely sweet, friendly and positive. That truly is the vibe of our school.
I joined Kat when my duty was over, and she was in mid conversation about all the wonders of Siena. One coworker said, “You will eat well. This lunch food doesn’t count as your first Italian meal.” It’s ok for school food, but this is true.
I walked Kat down to my apartment, which is just minutes from the school, where she settled down for a short winter’s nap, and I went back to work until the end of the day.
Back to my apartment, I roused Kat as we prepared for an evening in Nervi, a nearby resort neighborhood along the sea — where I take all my guests on their first night much like the school brought me when I first arrived. There is no better welcome to Genoa and the Ligurian Coastal beauty.
We walked along the passegiata and walked into a quaint seaside restaurant called Chandra, with views of the waves crashing against the rocks. With a slightly Indian vibe, we enjoyed the quaint decor, snacked on the free snacks with our drinks, and then ordered our meal, featuring focaccine (friend dough filled with soft, yummy stracchino cheese). I had chicken tandoori and Kat had a pasta dish, I believe.
I’m showing off the beautiful new necklace Kat bought me at the Met as a hostess gift along with plenty of other practical and fun goodies and meals to spoil me.
We chatted, caught up, enjoyed the sea, and then enjoyed the live music as it began to play. With jet lag for Kat and general fatigue for me, though, we couldn’t last through more than a couple of songs. Back to Genoa for bed. A big day ahead of us on Saturday.
We were blessed with glorious spring-like weather that weekend, with temperatures climbing into the low 60s, a delightful break from the soggy 50s we had in the week leading up to her visit. Saturday morning we had breakfast, then headed into the city to see Genoa. I showed Kat the medieval center, the port, Columbus’s alleged birthplace, and we even had some time for boot shopping . . . while there were some good potential options, we didn’t find exactly what Kat was looking for but we enjoyed the browsing experience.
Back on a bus, we grabbed our overnight bags, then back on a bus for Brignole train station, then to Siena via Pisa. I slept most of the train ride, absolutely exhausted from work. Kat began her many postcards (I believe she sent 30 something). The sun was in that glorious golden hour, and with our latitude, it lingers longer than in other parts of the world. We consulted the map, and made a mad dash for the iconic slanted architecture.
It leans a bit more every year, and as I had not been since 2004, I could really feel like it was leaning noticeably more. After posing for the obligatory “let’s hold this thing up” pictures, we strolled back through town, past postcard shops and touristy knick knack pushers, back to the train and towards Tuscany and Siena.
At one random station, we stopped to get a snack and read the board for our connection. Our train was cancelled! Ahh, Italy . . .always full of frustrations. We had to sit in the station and wait a bit for the next train, but we were grateful there was a next train. We rolled into Siena a bit later than we anticipated, but glad to be there with fresh air and stars peeking out of the inky sky. Having not been there since 2002, I was very pleasantly surprised by the redo of the train station. Previously, you had to board a bus, grab a taxi, or walk up a very long hill to the city, with the station settled at the base of a big hill. But now, they have constructed an elaborate system of escalators and people movers that bring you easily and conveniently to the top of the hill, where you can then stroll through the medieval wall and right into town, all lit up in its serene romantic beauty.
We were tired from the travel, but captivated by the magic of the city. Siena is special, and I will always choose staying her over Florence. It’s a popular day trip place, but to stay allows you to experience the real magic when the tourist crowds disperse, and you can wander and enjoy in peace and serenity. Kat had articles from the New York Times Travel Section and she had a recommendation for a restaurant in the main square. We found it, and enjoyed an absolutely delicious meal with a view of City Hall. Then a short stroll just outside of town to our hotel, which we were so excited about. We chose a quaint b&b with 360 degree views of the hillside.
Upon arrival at our hotel, we experienced a bit of a snafu. They accidentally gave away our room to someone who arrived looking for a room. The person working the desk was not a regular, so she made a mistake. I was so exhausted and irritated by that point, but Kat works in hotels and knows this can happen. They rebooked us in a nearby hotel in the same area. We ended up with two single rooms, and the rooms were on the road instead of secluded like the other hotel. However, the quality was excellent as was the service. The original hotel was very apologetic and offered us discounts on future stays. So it’s all good — and these things are part of the travel adventure. I slept very well, and we awoke to a beautiful breakfast with views over the hills and valley in the bright sunshine. Delicious. No complaints. Another gorgeous day awaited us.
After some photos in the garden, we saw the civic museum with its famous mural. Kat educated and entertained me with her wealth of medieval knowledge, enhancing the experience. We then boarded a train to Florence and headed to the Duomo for a quick photo stop then straight for the Uffizi Gallery, where we had booked “Skip the line” tickets for a nominal fee. This was my 5th time in Florence, and I was finally getting to see the Uffizi. So much outstanding, famous and beautiful art to contemplate. We spent hours there soaking it all up, took some photos outside along the river, stopped for some yummy pizza, then back to the train. Yes, there was unfortunately a lot of clock-watching on my part to make sure we could do everything — and it wasn’t as laid back as I would have liked to be. But we made it happen, it was a great adventure, Kat was in awesome spirits, and I had a blast.
We rolled into Genoa that evening, and instead of going straight to sleep, I hung out in the living room with Kat for a sleepover style late-night chat.
Here is a slideshow of our adventure:
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Kat left for the airport 5:30 the next morning, with a stop in Paris long enough for her to enjoy the city then back to New York. What an amazing, fabulous adventure. Thanks for visiting!
“I’ll be back!” she said. I’m looking forward to our next adventure, whether it’s a weekend somewhere in Italy or Europe, or a longer break. We shall see. Until I post our next adventure, you may be interested in checking out Kat’s photography blog: http://hhphotogsummerstreets2013.tumblr.com
-written 26 June 2013 but posted in March for appropriate timeline
There is definitely a theme to my travels. I repeatedly visit favorite places in Europe like some visit a favorite park or beach. An open Europhile, I traveled to Europe every chance I had. In fact, I tell people I moved here in order to reduce my carbon footprint. Now I fly Transatlantically twice a year as opposed to the 4-5 flights I did when I lived in NYC.
Ireland is one of my favorites. What are the other repeats? Well, by now you should know Belgium (12). I lived in England and went back 6 or so other times (it gets fuzzy due to years I popped in just for a night en route to the continent). Switzerland (10). Other places, I’d like to pop in and visit, but I would always go to the favorite spots as well. Europe allows for that, with countries like US States. (You don’t count how many times you visit NY when you live in NJ, for example).
But why not Italy? Why is it not on the repeat fave list? Let’s see, before I moved here, I had traveled to Italy 5 times, so I clearly did enjoy my time but was not lured as often as nearby Switzerland, for example. Well, to be honest, I always liked popping into Tuscany especially and always had visions of one day chilling in the Cinque Terra (that’s just 1.5 hours away now!). But train strikes, overbooked trains, missed connections, tourist crowds, and general chaos makes Italy a bit frustrating for a tourist (as well as an inhabitant). Not to knock my host country, but I just didn’t feel as strong a lure to Italy as to my faves. Switzerland, Belgium, and Ireland are calm, ordered, peaceful, beautiful, friendly, and extremely accommodating to tourists.
Even after all these visits, I was still excited and at peace when I landed around 8pm. Ahhh. The fresh air, the . . . how do I say it? Ireland has some kind of magical hold over me. A friend told me, “It’s in the blood.” I am 25% Irish, with my mother’s grandparents hailing from County Monaghan. As a result, she just got her Irish passport after validating her dual citizenship status. She also qualifies for Italian dual citizenship (actually, as do I as they honor citizenship through great grandparents). But as I have learned after the 6 months it took me to get my Visa, the process is very bureaucratic, but I’ll get it one day. 🙂 I’m 50% Italian, by the way, with Mom’s maternal grandparents from Northern Italy, the Piacenza region, to be exact. And Dad’s grandparents from Sicily (Palermo). Anyways, I do feel a bit at home in Italy, and I certainly look Italian. But I’m still trying to find a way to articulate why Ireland is so special to me.
Is it the incredibly fresh, crisp air? Not to knock Genoa’s air, but it doesn’t have the same pristine quality. Is it the fact that they speak English? With the fun brogues? Is it the people’s wonderful sense of humor? Their open and friendly nature? The fact that even the cab driver will tell you his life story if you get him started. Mom loves to get them started, always asking, “How is your day so far?” That’s all it takes. Before long, we are learning tales of relatives in New York, snowstorms 15 years ago, slow business days, daughters and sons-in-laws, advice for traveling, commentary on the “Gloom and Doom” economy . . . it goes on and on. Mom is always quick to say, “I come every February and now I have my Irish passport.”
“It’s the promised land,” said our Cabbie last night.
Ahh.
Ireland is a beautiful country. But while the views are splendid, I guess it is the people. We love the people. The Irish make everyone feel at home, like we are all family. I love that. And now we actually do have some friends here who are like family.
We met them in Lake Como, Italy actually. How? Mom’s gift of gab.
I was swimming in the small pool on the terrace, overlooking gorgeous Lake Como, summer 2011. Mom was sunbathing and happened to strike up a conversation with a young woman. Her friend was floating on a raft in the pool, near me. Before long, we discovered they were both teachers working in Dublin. We enjoyed lots of conversation, laughs, and some drinks, kept in touch through facebook, and reunited last summer for dinner and a concert at the National Concert Hall. The music of Danny Elfman. (Simpsons, of course!). It was all in connection with the Jameson International Film festival that is held this time every year. And I’m always here this year because it’s my February break. Luckily, my February break at my new school (the Ski Week) coincides with that of my old school.
Anyways, this year, the music at the concert hall was a bit dark so Mary Bridget and Elaine booked tickets for The Gate theatre, a small, intimate theatre. After a delightful dinner and sinful dessert at the Gresham Hotel (seriously sinful — bread and butter pudding for me that must have had a whole brick of Kerry Gold in it, mmm), we walked across to the Gate Theatre where we discovered we had 2nd row seats for “A Bedroom Farce,” a very funny British Comedy.
We were laughing our arses off for the duration, especially while watching a John Cleese like character stuck in bed with back pain. He dropped his book and the look on his face and the perfect mannerisms . . . it was wonderful. If the wrong type of actor was cast, it just wouldn’t be funny. But this was delightful. Having just suffered a flare up of an old track injury where I had a slipped disc/sciatica, I know all too well the comic positions, faces, and noises you make when your back gets “stuck” as his was.
2nd Row Seats for the show. Intermission.
So, after a lovely evening, we thanked the girls for their delightful treat (Aunt Minnie got dinner for us and the girls just insisted that they treat us to the show no matter how hard Mom tried to protest. Elaine said, “We won’t take it. We’ll just leave that as a very nice tip for our waiter.”)
Mom said, “These are our first international friends. You’ve been traveling for years, but for us, this is new and they are so special.” She is right.
“Who are your first international friends?”
I thought a minute. “Jasper and Dave” I said. From Bruges. “11 years later, I still talk to them and visit them.”
Mary Bridget said, “It is so wonderful to have international friends.”
“It Tis,” said Elaine. We all nodded our heads, said a farewell, and Mary Bridget promised to be in touch to help me plan my trip. I’m taking some students to Dublin to study the Irish Nationalist movement, the revival, WB Yeats, James Joyce, etc. As she is studying at Trinity College in the English Department (for her Masters) she said they would be happy to help.
—-
What else did we do on this tour? Well, a quick recap. I arrived via Paris the evening before and stayed in a single ensuite room at a lovely hostel I had visited in 2006 in a dorm room. This was the first time in a private room, and it was spendidly comfortable. The next morning, I walked over to our hotel where I met Mom and Great Aunt Minnie, freshly arrived from JFK in NYC. They napped, I got a haircut at Toni & Guy. (It’s very hard to find English speaking hairdressers and my Italian is just not that good yet).
That evening, we took a DART train ride to Dun Laoghaire (pronounced Dun Leary) for a lovely stroll in the sunshine along the sea and a delightful meal. I had sweet and spicy chicken wings. mm. Back on the electric commuter rail (60% financed by the EEC) and back to Dublin. Did we take a stroll around? I don’t exactly remember, but the ladies were jetlagged and to bed early.
The next morning, we enjoyed a lovely breakfast, hopped on a hop on/hop off tour bus — an annual tradition, stopped at the Guinness Storehouse for their first visit (I went in 2001). I enjoyed a pint at the Gravity Bar with views over the city. Mom had half of hers, and Aunt Minnie had a soda. I loved it and couldn’t believe that when I came in 2001, as a Junior in College, I still was making bitter beer face, even with Guinness. I had a couple of sips and then handed it over to the man sitting at the bar waiting for such an opportunity. He must buy his ticket every day and then drink discarded Guinnesses all day for free. I did not see him in 2013 on this trip, though.
Anyways, we completed our loop and returned for high tea. Later that night, I ordered room service for puff pastry potato and chicken leak pie. mmm.
The following morning, we boarded a bus for our annual Wicklow tour, the gorgeous mountains just outside of Dublin where many movies are filmed, including PS I Love You. I can’t go to Wicklow without thinking of this clip: Mom saw it on TV and said it reminded her of me. Aww. What a sweet movie. With great music. Love it. Of course, as it was February, the fields weren’t filled with the gorgeous purple heather, but they still have their own special quality. More about Wicklow along with photos in another post.
That evening, Mom and I walked to Grafton Street, where there was shopping until 9pm and I had a wardrobe to restock a bit. But somehow we got separated and somewhere there is security footage of us comically passing each other. In fact, we both said we were watching the street sweeper go by. We were probably on either side of him. And somewhere in that sweeper went one of my new favorite earrings. Oh well.
Yesterday was a lazy day. We woke up for breakfast, Mom and I shopped (finally), then we rested until dinner with the girls. And finally I did some yoga to try to fend off this food binge. Oh, but how lovely it all is. And now here we are, Lazy Day 2. We might go to a movie. It’s really cold, actually snow flurrying. And while I did not need gloves in Switzerland when it was -9 degrees Farenheit, Ireland at 30 degrees freezes my hands off. It’s a chilling, damp kind of cold. We were thinking of heading to Howth to see the sea lions at the other end of Dublin bay, but it looks like a movie is in order. I want to see Lincoln, but Aunt Minnie says, in all seriousness, “I don’t want to see that. I know how it ends.”
So we shall see. Off for a walk so housekeeping can come in.
Exactly 6 months ago, on an unusually hot and humid day, I saw the twisting, stunning Ligurian Coast from the airplane and landed in Genoa, Italy with several new colleagues. It was the culmination of a whirlwind of planning that commenced around this time last year, as I started paperwork and the long process of packing up my wonderful, comfortable life in NYC for the adventure I always dreamed about.
The fountain at Piazza de Ferrari, cooling off in the mist. I was not posing, believe it or not . . .a friend just caught the bliss.
I had been plotting and scheming a way to do this for so many years, even as a high school junior, contemplating attending college at the American University in Paris. Studying abroad in England, with weekends all over the country and the continent, ignited the travel bug; the summer after that study abroad experience, I had the fever big time.
I was heading back to England for my flight home after three weeks solo backpacking around Europe post graduation from college. I was sitting on my overstuffed backpack at the Bruges train station when a woman started talking to me, explaining that if I was a teacher, it would be easy to live abroad. “I don’t want to leave Belgium” I had told her. “I love it here.”
“There are jobs in Belgium and all over Europe at US Military Bases,” she explained. That stuck in my mind, and a fantasy began exploding, but honestly, I had no intention of becoming a high school teacher, with dreams of a Masters and eventually PhD in English on my mind. A tanned, happy girl in low pig tails, a dreamer.
We parted ways, and I kept that dream in the back of my mind but thought it would probably be something else that brought me to Europe. One day, one day. Maybe grad school. Maybe working at a hostel, I dunno. But I had to come back. And LIVE here.
Eventually, after backpacking around Australia and many other fun post-grad adventures, I started my MA program in English at Fordham University, then wanted to get a PhD but took time off to sort things out, get on my feet financially, and figure out my whole deal. I got a job as an adjunct professor at Iona College in 2004, when I had just turned 24 years old. That was so much fun, and I knew I loved teaching. A few years later, very happy but pretty darned broke, it was time to reevaluate — and I saw a poster in the NYC Subway: “You remember your teacher’s name. Who will remember yours?” It was an ad for the NYC Teaching Fellows. I realized I loved teaching, wanted to give high school a try and wanted to help the community I had been living in for many years as I lived by Fordham University, which happened to be located in one of the most poverty-stricken neighborhoods in the city. I applied after the deadline was extended, after I stopped hemming and hawwing, and before I knew it, I was in an overwhelmingly intensive summer training program. Instead of sunny days on the beach at my lifeguarding gig, I was in an overheated un-airconditioned classroom with 60 kids. Yes, 60 “Don’t worry, many will drop out,” said a supervisor as I watched kids sit on the windowsill and floor.
That fall, September 2007, I began teaching at a high school right by my apartment, and met wonderful colleagues and amazing students that I am still in touch with today. It was one of the most challenging yet rewarding experiences of my life. Although I only had a 2 year commitment, I stayed 5 years, 3 additional years after completing my Education Masters at City College. Then it was time to reevaluate again. Time was ticking, life was slipping away and I thought: hey, I’m not married, have no kids, no property, and no serious strings. Remember that dream? Remember it? GO FOR IT!
So, how did I figure all this out? I thought, ok, I want to work at an international school. I looked into the military schools, but you have less options to choose where you work. Even still, I did apply. But after studying in Norway on a fellowship in Summer 2010, I learned about international schools and how great they are. I thought, ok, what are some of the best schools? Looked them up, and then looked up who accredits them. CIS. Ok, so I applied to be a candidate for CIS, the Council for International Schools. I also entered my information, got recommendations from my principal and other supervisors, put together an application package, and I was in the system. I paid for some of my own International Baccalaureate training (IB) to distinguish myself from the heaps of other English teachers, trying to give myself that competitive edge and a school the incentive to hire a non-EU teacher. Although they tell you to be open-minded, my heart was set on Europe. I was coming from one of the greatest cities in the world, and I wasn’t going to leave it for anything other than my dream.
January 2012, I flew to London for a huge fair, and was overwhelmed by the response of notes in my email and my mailbox in the candidates lounge. A day and several interviews later, I had narrowed it down to four exciting prospects. But Genoa was number one in my mind. Let’s be honest: I saw the salary online and didn’t even contact the school, thinking, “Oh no way can I make that work.” I did not know Italy had a special tax exempt status for two years. But still . . .
So, one of my emails was from my boss in Genoa. He seemed so positive, and I was curious. I went to google maps, knowing Genoa was in the North, the food belt . . . but where exactly? And then “OMG, it’s on the water!!! Oh, right on the sea!” I enjoyed the interview and there was just something so unique about the school community that came across in the director’s presentation. He showed us pictures of Salty Cats Day, and I thought “This place is special.” So, I had options at other schools that were amazing but when the Genoa offer came in, I knew I had to take it. But not before I had one of the most sleepless agonizing nights ever as I tried to decide. I woke up, and after checking my email, I discovered my dad had worked out my financials to show me that it would be possible. And that . . . they would help. (It is in a very large thanks to them that I have a little travel budget!!) My mom, who was originally against my coming said, “Who could you be if you followed your dream?” It was simple and short. And I knew what she meant. I walked over to accept my position.
When I told my other prospects I had accepted another offer, one man said, “It is a good decision. It’s how I started my own international career . . . in Italy. You won’t get rich, but you’ll live richly.” It’s true. I may not be paid a fortune, but I’m paid a fortune in beauty. La Vita e Bella!
Flying home, I was walking on air. I ended up getting a taxi ride all the way to the airport for the same price as if I had transferred to the train (nice cabbie), and then when I flew out of London, I flew right over Central London, with a sparkling view of the London Eye, Tower of London, all bright and glimmering in the sunshine. I had never flown this way in all my years of flying to England. Everything magically fell into place.
When I came home, I was so ecstatic, I couldn’t contain my excitement, as I called everyone and then eventually broke the news on facebook for 86 likes and a bunch of comments and well wishes. “This is pretty much a combination of everything you love,” somebody wrote.
yes.
Everything was dreamy after that. I had a glow that just didn’t wear off. Oh, and then I received a message from the US Department of Defense to come down to DC for an interview for positions for the 2012-2013 school year. Ahh, but I already had my job! But still, so nice to be invited. 🙂 With departure on my mind, my life had a new trajectory and spark, and I began to carpe diem and savor every sweet, delcious, awesome moment of the life I was leaving behind . . .for now. It was half a year of celebrating and partying which was revved up in the summer for The Grand Farewell Tour, one of the best summers of my entire life.
I was elated and exhausted when I finally landed in Genoa. While I do miss home, especially everyone I love, I also am savoring every moment here because although I can stay international as long as I want, I know this particular experience, given many factors, can’t last. But oh, it is so so beautiful and it has changed me and my career forever. Whether I return to the NYC school system (They have Public IB Schools) or continue at an international school or seek another private school, I know I will always stay with the IB and that I will always have this experience tucked away in my heart, soul, and . . . the very fabric that is me.
Grazie Mille to my former self for giving me this great gift! Grateful for everyone in my life for all their support during this process. I have never smiled so much.
Today, I am in Dublin for my annual visit with my mother (who just got her IRISH passport!) and my Great Aunt Minnie. Instead of flying from JFK with them, I just met them here. I will certainly have a Guinness in celebration. CHEERS!
I’ll leave you with this video which is like my theme song while living this good life here: One Republic “Good Life” 🙂
I have just returned from visit number 12 to Belgium! Che Fortuna!
Here’s how it all happened. I am teaching an International Baccalaureate (IB) course called Language A. (I teach it in English, but it is offered in dozens of languages). I already have training in Language and Literature, but it’s a different track for English than my school offers. I applied for funds through the professional development committee to go, originally for December in Oxford, but it’s a crazy time of year and I had already received some funding, so I applied again for spring semester. The soonest course was in Brussels, Belgium. So once again, back to one of my favorite countries.
As you may recall from my previous Belgium post My Magic Bruges , my heart lies in Flanders – the Flemish (Dutch dialect) speaking region north of Brussels. But while I may love Bruges the best, Brussels is certainly nice.
It was a whirlwind. I worked on Thursday, my crazy day, for four 80 minute classes, jetted home to get my bags and dash to the airport where I had to transfer in Rome, finally arriving in Belgium at midnight. Brussels airport is super convenient with a rail connection to Brussels Central, so I did that then groggily showed a taxi driver my hotel info and arrived at my hostel/hotel around 1am. Whew! Reception normally closes at 22:00, so I’m so glad I notified them in advance and someone waited for me. When I arrived, I soon learned that he was “going to sleep for three hours” because then he had to work again very early in the morning. Yikes.
I awoke the next morning to pouring rain as I had a yummy hotel breakfast – just some warm croissants and breads along with coffee and OJ. I was worried about my transport connections to the Management Conference Center, so I jetted out and on my way. I somehow got on the right tram, but in the wrong direction, with foggy windows and no signs to announce the stops, it was a collossall guessing game. Where am I? Where am I going? I dunno. Eventually I asked someone what stop we were at, then I learned I had gone the wrong way. I am not necessarily a shy person, but with certain things I’m painfully shy — asking strangers for directions – yeah, that’s tricky for me. Everyone was being super helpful, but they were also confused, too. The directions listed the wrong name for the tram stop, which thanks to google maps and some help from tram riders, we learned was Baili. Next, the website said, “once you get off at the stop, the Management Center is a short walk away.” No map, no indication of the direction. Nothing to help. Again, luckily I had a google maps printout with me as well, but that was not exactly correct. One woman said, “I worked at that stop for 20 years, and I have never heard of that place.” There was a lot of passing around of my documents, a lot of discussion and a lot of wishes for good luck. We had a while to go, so we chatted about books and how much she loves Faulkner. So friendly. Everyone was so kind, and I was so grateful.
Once I exited, I clung to my soggy paper and finally found my way. After a hard start, the day was lovely. My teacher was extremely warm, positive and helpful– an IB English A teacher in London. We had people in our class from all over the world: Russia, Netherlands, Turkey, Jordan, Poland, Italy, Switzerland, Slovakia . . .and all teaching in different languages. Very cool!
The information was extremely helpful for my coursework. We shared ideas, and it was all information my students and I desperately needed, so I soaked it up like a sponge and the days flew by. They provided us with coffee breaks after 90 minute sessions. Yummy treats, and then an absolutely delicious lunch buffet. The first day, there were cheese croquettes as an option! My favorite! And two different types. I just love how these are done in Belgium, fried perfectly crisp with a sumptuous filling. I need to write poetry about these cheese croquettes to do them justice. They also had a huge salad spread with smoked salmon, meats, tasty raisin and cranberry bread . . . I couldn’t stop eating, and even went for a second helping of croquettes. Even little glass bottles of coke. And one of the dessert options at the buffet was creme brulee. At a buffet!
At the end of a long yet productive day of coursework, I grabbed a fresh-made warm waffle with chocolate sauce, whipped cream and ice cream, then headed straight for a train to Ghent, where I’d meet up with Jasper, one of my Belgian friends I met in Bruges in the summer of 2001 — all those years ago. Both Jasper and Dave have become really good friends, and due to both my love for Europe and Belgium, I get to see them a lot.
Jasper met me at the station, and we walked around the very quiet streets of Ghent. It was Friday night — and unlike most university towns in America, the college kids go home. Virtually all of them. Ghent is a major university where most of the Flemish speaking college aged kids go to school. Both Jasper and Dave went there, and both of them now have their own apartments in the city like many young adults stay. Jasper walked me through a street that was like a mini Greenwich Village, if I wanted to stretch a bit. . .er, a lot. He kept calling Ghent the “New York of Flanders”
“Take a photo,” he said, “and post it as the New York of Flanders. And everyone will wonder — ooh, what is that city.” I laughed and turned on the sarcasm. Then he said, “No really, look at that tall building they are constructing.” He pointed to a solitary communist-style architecture apartment building that was clearly an eyesore on the gorgeous medieval landscape. “That makes it like New York, and this is my neighborhood. So I kind of live in New York. I’m a New Yorker.”
“So move to New York, ” I said.
“No, I can’t. My heart is here.”
And I hear that from so many Belgians. They often love to talk about and visit New York. They have a fondness for America, American things, and American people. (Do they like me for me or my country, hmmm?) Yet they wouldn’t want to leave their country. I can’t blame them. It’s a good , peaceful life. People are provided for. Overall, it’s calm. It’s a beautiful country with beautiful people and delicious food and beer. Yeah, I get it.
I had to get some fries. Though they try, they just can’t get them right in the “Belgian Fry Shops” of NYC. This night, I tried the Mammoet–sauce (mayonnaise, tomato, onion,glucose, garlic, soy) because I remember loving it out late in Ghent in November. To help me choose, the girl put four different sauces in a dish for me to dip a fry in to taste. Cool! I loved them all, but chose the Mammoet for this night.
Jasper had a water.
I refused to feel guilty devouring the fries as he counted calories and just ate his traditional one fry in sauce. I was in Belgium and I was determined to eat my way through it. As usual.
Afterwards, we went to a bar in a student neighborhood, where on a Friday night, there were only four other people, all around age 18. We had Leffe Blondes, then moved on to another bar for a cocktail. I had a mojito and Jasper had a Bloody Mary, mostly for the political reference. (He’s a history teacher). He kept making a face while drinking it, saying “I hate tomatoes, I should have known I wouldn’t have liked this.”
Um . . .yeah.
We had some good laughs, sharing memories over the years, and then I had to dash home to catch my train. Bummer. I’m usually here on holiday, where I can crash if I miss the train — no big deal. But my class was super important and super expensive for my school, so I wanted to make sure I got the most out of it.
I arrived back at Brussels Central and decided to walk to my hotel that night, through the Grand Place, past students, locals and tourists out for Friday night fun, and I got to my hotel around 1 am . . .again, and passed out exhausted. 7am rise the next day.
Another pleasant hotel breakfast, another amazing and informative day of class along with fabulous lunch (Turkey Cordon Blu), then I dashed to the train for a ride to BRUGES! I was so excited both Jasper and Dave agreed to meet me in Bruges this night so I could see it. 🙂 Jasper hopped on the train in Ghent, and Dave was already home in Bruges for the weekend, so he would drive over later.
As Jasper and I walked around Bruges, he was oohing and ahhing at everything: the quaint winding Medieval streets, the peace, the architecture. “I’m starting to appreciate my city like a tourist,” he said. “I see why you always want to stay here. I can really see it now. It’s special.”
We walked through the market square, passed the Belfry, then stopped in a fry shop where I indulged in bitterballen — fried balls filled with something delicious. Then I had a Kaas Kroqet. mmm. After, we had beers in a bar I visited several times before, including NYE 2010. When Dave arrived, we went to a bar on the T-Zand, the other big market in Bruges, with the fountain. I had a Brugse Zot (Bruges Fool) and a Kriek, followed by profiteroles. mmmm. Dave was distracted because he had a crazy girl stalking him and getting him and his friend in trouble with their girlfriends, so he was outside on the phone for much of it. But we understood. Then all too quickly, it was time to catch the train home. Jasper and I said farewell to Dave, boarded the train, and he departed in Ghent. I wanted to snooze, but Jasper said, “That’s not social!” So I stayed up to spend time with him before my next visit.
Back in Brussels late again, and again, I arrived at my hotel around 1am. Really exhausted now, but it’s all worth it.
The following morning, I rose early, ate breakfast, checked out and left my luggage, and darted to class for the last time. It was a super helpful conclusion. We said our farewells and had lunch at 12:30. I sat with my teacher and a woman who is an admin in Lebanon. I’m going to try to arrange a visit.
After, I strolled around a Brussels park a bit, at the stop called Parc on Tram Line 1 and 5. Then I got my luggage and headed for the airport an hour early. I wanted more fried food, but didn’t have the opportunity there. I did have the opportunity to purchase some Neuhaus cocoa powder for hot chocolate. mmm. To kill time, I had a nice Leffe Brown beer in the terminal and headed on a long journey home, transferring in Rome. I arrived in Genoa before 11:30, but by the time I waited for the air bus, switched to the local bus, and walked home, it was almost 1am . . .yet again.
The next day at work, after going, going, going — I was super exhausted. But I was also glowing because it was an awesome, productive and fun trip filled with much joy and a lot of food. I don’t know how this is possible, but I swear my pants already don’t fit. Worth it.
**Please note, there seems to be an issue with inserting a slideshow in WordPress. The button is no longer there. Any ideas? I inserted a gallery this time instead.
Under the Ligurian Sun 
