Category Archives: travel

Visit #10 to the Emerald Isle

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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.

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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.

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.

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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.

Cheers in Dublin to 6 months living in Europe!

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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.

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”  🙂

Belgium calls again!

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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.

Sweet Home New York City

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I love my life in Italy; it’s a magical adventure filled with wonder, many discoveries, and lots of beauty.  School is a full and fantastic busy, and I have fabulous colleagues.  Yet . . . my home will always be NYC.

Getting here was quite an adventure.  I departed on the morning of December 20th, eager for an evening arrival home.  Mamma’s cooking, cuddling with my cats, and seeing friends — a cozy, chill welcome.  Instead, my flight from Genoa was cancelled.  I was at the airport with several colleagues who were taking the same connecting flight to Munich before departing for our various destinations across the US.  As we waited, we saw one of my students, his sister and father.  They were on their way to LA.

DELAYED.  We stared at the board and I grew more and more nervous as my connection in Munich was just over an hour.  First a half hour delay, then an hour delay.  Then it disappeared off the monitor.  This was how they informed us that our flight was cancelled. We followed my students’ father outside security as he explained that this happened last week with the same flight.  Mechanical difficulties.  My student said, ‘They were spinning the propellar for an hour, then gave up.”

After an hour online to rebook our tickets, wondering if they could find us seats during the Christmas rush, we finally had our new connections.  I was going to Munich at 5, then to Frankfurt where I’d sleep in a hotel and fly out the next morning.  17 hour delay.  During this process, several other coworkers popped into the airport for Ryan Air flights to England.  When Ryan Air is the reliable flight, you know you’re in trouble.

I was sad because I was supposed to land in NYC at 6pm that night, and possibly go out to meet some friends.  But instead, I passed out exhausted in a really nice hotel room with light snow outside in Munich.  It looked like the bed was comfortable until I went onto it and almost bounced off a la Clark Griswold in European Vacation.

To the airport early in the AM.  Lufthansa was full so they rebooked me on United and the woman was kind and upgraded me to premium economy extra legroom seat.  I didn’t realize until I boarded the plane and learned that these seats usually cost an extra $179 each way.  Finally a break.  I slept most of the flight, read a bit, and then flew over Brookside Swim Club, my old summer hangout where I worked, taught swim lessons, and was head lifeguard for many years.  Now I go as a patron.  My parents live very close, so I tried to spot the house, but couldn’t find it.  I did see my high school, then the NYC skyline.  Oh, how could I ever leave this great city?  Only for a place as magnificent as Italy. I swear, New Yorkers have to be darned choosy when we take a post overseas.  And there’s no where else I’d rather live in the states.

Groggy and sleepy, I showered for a tea party with family friends, then showered again to go to a dinner party.  Halfway through the appetizers, it was 3:45am on my clock.  I didn’t make it to dinner and was in bed soon after.  On my way out of the city, I met up with a friend for quick drink and a fun reunion.  I mentioned something about going home on January 5th, and he said, “This is home.  You are going to Italy on January 5th.”  Ahh, yes.

The following day, I chilled, went for a haircut and enjoyed my cats.  On the 23rd, my parents and I took a train into Manhattan to see the decorations, the windows, and go to the Bryan Park Christmas Markets, a tradition my mom and I have done since 2007.  This year, Dad joined.  It was a beautiful sunny day, and it hurt my heart to see places that were so everday to me, so splendid . . .and knowing that soon I have to leave again until the summer.

Christmas Eve, I met up with two great friends for lunch in Ho-Ho-Kus.  Turkey and Brie.  mmm.  Turkey!  My brother joined the fam for dinner that night, and then it began snowing! Soon after, I drove to Fordham to sing with choir alumni in the beautiful Midnight Mass, a tradition that I have been doing since 2002 after I graduated.

Christmas Day, I woke up to a sunny, cozy morning, nursed a big coffee (can’t do that in Italy, although the flavor is much better) and opened a handful of gifts.  It was a modest Christmas, but that is good because how much can I carry back anyway?  And I got some nice things, including a Chi flat iron to play with.  Also, I have a nice check which I decided to use for Spring Break.  I’m taking suggestions.  Where shall I go? So exciting.

It was so wonderful to be with the family, with everyone I love.  It is very strange to live abroad, with people who are fast acquaintances and buddies, but you are away from your true friends and family.  Your coworkers become your surrogate family — but it’s just not the same.  Permanent expat life is so tempting, but this is the hard side.  Being away.  I don’t think I can stay forever.  But the reunion was so nice and filled me with a warm glow.  Content.  I am blessed.

Merry Christmas.  Buon Natale a tutti!

Here is a slideshow of my pictures in America so far.

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Flying over Brookside. By the time I got my camera out, a cloud was in the way, but it’s the oval below with the docks. Cute.

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My high school

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NYC skyline

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1 World Trade Center with the newly added spire

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Macy’s Herald Square

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Bryant Park

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My Magic Bruges

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November 1 and 2 is the All Saints holiday in Italy, so we had off that Thursday and Friday.  As with any break, it was time to travel somewhere.  I chose to visit Bruges, Belgium to see one of my favorite cities in the world as well as good friends I met over 11 years ago.

This was my 9th visit to Bruges . . .10 if you count 2002 where I visited twice during one long backpacking trip.  There has always been something extremely magical about this fairytale city, a step back in time and a break from reality.  A place to wander and imagine.

While studying abroad in England in spring 2001, my friend Mike and I booked a mini break to  Brussels, Belgium.  We were looking for something different and new, and figured this would be a nice three day escape.  Our travel agent in Banbury said, “Oh, you must go to Bruges.  It’s very special.  Canals, swans . . . you must go.”  Mike and I kept that in mind.  After wandering around the beautiful yet congested streets of Brussels, we returned to our hotel and saw a poster advertising a day trip to Bruges the next day.  We signed up, and the next day, we arrived for a big surprise.

I knew nothing about Bruges except the swans and canals.  I was not prepared for the sights that had me spinning my head in all directions like my cat when we throw too many catnip mice at her.  We oohed, we ahhed, we wandered, and we couldn’t stop snapping pictures — beauty everywhere.  Extremely ornate baroque architecture, with intricate details on every piece of moulding and wood, from houses to churches.  The carillon bells chimed throughout the day, a live organist playing sweet melodies for us at the top of the Belfry, the centerpiece of the quaint, picturesque cobbled square. The square was lined with  restaurants, horse-drawn carriages, and tourists happy to discover one of medieval Europe’s best kept secrets.  Back then before the release of the movie, who knew how beautiful things were In Bruges?

Bruges is considered one of the world’s largest outdoor museums.  That’s not necessarily a bad thing.  How did it stay so well-preserved? Bruges used to be on the coast, an important port city,  an epicenter for trade and Flemish art and architecture.  But when the water receded, Bruges was no longer on the coast and the city was abandoned, almost forgotten for centuries.  In the 1800s, when travel became a leisure activity, Victorian tourists “re-discovered” the beauty, putting Bruges on the map for the Grand Tour. Though filled with tourists, and tourism certainly has increased after the release of the 2008 movie, people do live here in this very special place.

During our walking tour, we wandered down a cobbled back lane, and I peered at the lace-covered windows, wondering about the lives inside.  What would it be like to live here?  I’d like to live here.  I need to come back.  I was absolutely mesmerized, and then I tried the food.  Fries like I’d never had in my life . . . crispy and flavorful, served in a white bowl, mayonnaise on the side.  Chicken in a delicious cream sauce.  I don’t know the name, I’m not even sure what else we had — I just remember the sensational flavors.  This was so early on in my world travels, just my second time in Europe — and I was overwhelmed with sensory ecstasy.

We took a cruise along the canals, dipping below low bridges, gliding past more intricate buildings and past the majestic swans, undulations trailing them.  We sampled the rich chocolate truffles, watched some lacemaking, then we stopped at a convent for cloistered nuns.  I sat amidst yellow tulips and imagined a life cloistered amidst all this beauty: thinking, praying, writing, reflecting . . . how peaceful.  I envied the nuns a little bit.

We boarded the bus and left the magical city, the spires disappearing in the distance before we entered the highway back to chaotic Brussels.  I began to regret not staying in Bruges instead.  I didn’t know.  But I knew I’d be back.

I had no idea it would be so soon.  That was March 2001.  That summer, my best friend Anna announced that she was going to be studying abroad for a month in . . . BRUGES . . .  as she was working toward her culinary degree at Johnson and Wales.  My heart pounded with excitement for her and a tinge of jealousy because she got to stay in that city, to experience life there like I had dreamed while wandering the streets.  She invited me to visit after her studies.  I had just returned from life abroad and was already dreaming of being back in Europe.  My parents said, “We’ll buy you the ticket as your birthday present.  You just pay for the hotel and incidentals.”  I did not hesitate and booked my flight for that July, just two months after I had returned from England.

Just before my 21st birthday, in low pigtails with a bright lifeguard tan, I boarded the plane for my first international trip alone.  Oh yes, I had the travel bug big time now, and this trip launched the next phase of my adventures.  I met Anna at a hotel in Bruges, and we rode bikes into the countryside, discovered a beautiful park, stumbled across a festival at a beer garden, and enjoyed summer beauty.  Before heading to Interlaken, Switzerland, we ventured out to her favorite bar, Bras, located in another square by the fountain. I threw on jeans and my royal blue Superman tank top, and we were out the door.  I remember being a bit tired that night but knew that I’d have a good time if I could just make it out.

At Bras, I had my first Belgian beer.  I usually involuntarily made “bitter beer face” every time I tried to have a beer when out, and instead opted for mixed drinks like vodka and cranberry.  Anna ordered me a Duvel, and it glided right down with a pleasant aftertaste.  Smooth.  No headache.  Nice buzz.  We sampled different beers that night, including Hoegarden and Stella, enjoyed the music, talked to the bartenders that Anna knew well, and then . . . magic.

A guy came up to me and said, “What do you think of that guy over there?”  He pointed to a very attractive, tanned, athletic Belgian.  “He’s cute,” I said.  Shortly afterward, he came over and in his good but not practiced English, we began talking.  And then  . . . kissing.  We kissed so long that the bartenders sprayed us with tap beers.  We barely noticed. Anna said she had to make new friends.

His name was Jasper and he had a fun, cute friend named Dave.  I found out he had lied about his age when his mother kept texting him to come home.  They were only 18, just having graduated from high school — about to enter college.  I was about to turn 21 in a couple of weeks, about to enter my senior year of college.  Oh well.  Jasper scrawled his email on a bar coaster and the next day Anna and I woke up without hangovers and were off for an amazing adventure in another one of my favorite places, the Swiss Alps.

At the end of that trip, Anna headed to Greece and I was back in Bruges for just a few days by myself.  I emailed Jasper, he met me at Bras again with Dave, and a long friendship was born.  Dave said, ‘We noticed you because of your Superman shirt . . . we thought that was so cool.”  And then when they found out I was a lifeguard, I had to explain that, no, I did not know Yasmin Bleethe.

We emailed throughout the year, and I visited the following summer while backpacking throughout Europe on my own for 3 weeks.  This was my two visits in 2002 . . . and well, I guess you could also say I had two visits in 2001.  Maybe 11 visits to Belgium depending on how you count it.  🙂  Bruges was the 2002 Culture Capital of Europe, so there were even more museum exhibits and cultural activities than usual.  I explored Van Eyck paintings, I learned more about the history, I shopped on the quaint streets, and I ate well.  Of course, I met up with Jasper and Dave at Bras and met some of their new friends and introduced them to some friends from Fordham that I ran into serendipitously on a back lane on the outskirts of town.  I also visited Ghent University, where they were now studying in another beautiful canal-laden city with grand architecture.  And then life happened.  Emails changed and we lost touch.  But we never lost the fun memories.

In 2005, I received an email from my friend Charlie.  The guys had posted a comment on his blog because he had mentioned my full name.  I guess they were searching for me and they said, “this may be the Kristin we met in Belgium some years ago.”  He asked if I knew them and said yes, and then we were back in touch.

We kept in touch with emails, but I did not get back until 2006 when I was in Belgium with my entire family . I had to show them how beautiful it was.

I’ll never forget the family’s faces as we walked to the market square at night on my birthday, August 11, 2006.  Sweet 26.  All lit up and a surprise feast for the eyes.  Then an absolutely amazing meal at one of the restaurants, facing the belfry. Cheese croquettes.  Delicious meal in various sauces.  A special beer called Kwak that required it’s own wooden holder to keep the hourglass shape from tipping over.  Bubbles and a bubbly mood.  Have I ever been this happy?  It was the only time our whole family traveled in Europe together, and we were in one of my favorite places.  On a whim, I emailed the guys, and then we met at the fountain, just like old times.  My brother met them and we were all fast friends, enjoying the music festival in town, talking in the bars until 4 am each evening, and just savoring the moment.  They told my brother, “You are our hero.” Did I ever laugh so much?  Good Times and Amazing Memories.

Life got in the way again, but I was able to return in the summer of 2009 on a grand tour with my father to Switzerland and Belgium.  Dave took me to a friend’s birthday party, then we met Jasper in Ghent for some beers and fun.  I was back that winter to experience New Years’  2010 in Bruges with my friend Krista.  Partying till dawn and making new friends, it was another of my favorite experiences.  I really enjoyed wandering the Christmas markets, sipping mulled wine, and peering at all the lights and Christmas decorations — one of my photos made it to the cover of my Christmas cards the following year.

Summer 2010, Dad and I were once again traveling through Europe, and once again returned to our favorite city to wander the streets and savor the food.  This time, I didn’t get to see Dave who was out of town, but Jasper and I met up a few times for good meals and good conversation. I also met up with Kai,Tobi, and Simone, friends I met at New Years.  And my friend  from NY, Josh, was backpacking in town that weekend, so we all had drinks together.

Summer 2011, yup, I was back in Europe again.  I spent a week in Italy with mom and Aunt Minnie, then flew to Brussels.  At Dave’s new apartment in Ghent, he popped some champagne for the three of us to celebrate 10 years since we first met in Bruges.  Anna said, “I wish I could have been there.  And who’d have thought that you’d still be in touch all these years later?”  We were grateful for the friendship, and I said, ‘Here’s to the next 10 years.  Hopefully I’ll come with my family one day and our kids can all play together.”  .

This year, as always, it was great to see my friends.  Thanks to facebook, I know everything that’s going on in their lives, and it’s so easy to just pick up where we left off, chatting, laughing, wandering.  We had some good beers in Ghent.  We ate delicious fries and bitterballen.  We watched Dave’s soccer game and met his teammates and their friends and girlfriends.  Everyday Belgium.

The trip was quick, but there was plenty of time for a visit to Ghent and plenty of wandering around Bruges, beautiful even in the cold November rain.  I was heartbroken and upset after all of Superstorm Sandy’s destruction in New York.  I was feeling far away and alone, and this trip ended up being at the perfect time.  The beauty and magic of the city soothed me as always.  The long walks cleared my head while I traveled back in time. The conversations with my old friends were special as always, and I enjoyed meeting more of their friends.  I ate well, laughed much, and soaked my soul in beauty.  I have a lot to be thankful for this Thanksgiving as always, and I am very thankful for the many, many happy memories I’ve had in Europe over the years with friends, family and new friends.  More about this particular trip in the photo essay.

Verona: Looking for Romeo under some balconies

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A few weeks ago, I planned a lazy, cozy PJ weekend spent dozing and catching up on movies.  But when a couple of friends invited me to Verona, I couldn’t say no.  A new city!  Yay!  Unlike Shakespeare, I was actually going to see Verona.  Yup, he set his star crossed lovers in this quaint medieval city without ever setting foot in Italy at all.  When I announced my departure on a Girls Night Out skype chat in NY (well, they were still up, and I was about to hop into the shower), they said “Have fun looking for Romeo.”

“Where do I find him?”

“Check under some balconies.”

Sleepy yet excited, I met my friends at that train station and we headed on over for our adventure. We were greeted with torrential rain upon our arrival – bummer.  We walked to our quaint hotel, which was midway between the city center and the train station, and began exploring.  Knowing nothing at all about Verona and having not even seen a guidebook, the city was a complete surprise.  Quaint castle.  Cool bridge from that castle with views over the river and the panorama of the city.  Various lookouts filled with tourists and necking teens.  This was definitely THE makeout spot for the Vernoese – wannabe Romeos charming the pants off their girls in that old fashioned lip lock we so often forget as we grow older and  . . .anyway.

My friend kept saying, “I love my life!  Seriously, I love my life.”

This was just a simple weekend trip for us.  Yes, I love my life.  We are so lucky.  Even in the rain, we were blissfully happy, wandering, exploring, just being.

Strolling through town, it was apparent that not just the locals were inspired by Romeo.  Many couples made it a kind of romantic pilgrimage to walk hand in hand in the streets that inspired the tragic love story.  People do love this story.  It came up in my 10th grade class, and all the girls swooned about how romantic and sweet the story is, and my snarky, sarcastic Korean student said “They die.  It’s tragic.  It’s horrible.  Nobody wins.”

And I said, “Would you rather have that amazing love and then die or would you rather live a long life and never know love?”

The girls said “love and die,” the guys said “life!”  hmmm.

After the bridge, we wandered in search of good food.  We heard that the people are really nice here and that the food is splendid.  We followed an amazing scent to a local restaurant where we learned that both rumors were true.  Our waiter was nice, sweet, funny, and spoke English!  Coming from non-touristy Genoa where almost nobody speaks it, this was a welcome treat.  I ordered macronicini with pumpkin and pork.  My friend ordered tortellini filled with a mix of meats. That sounded amazing and I went to switch and the waiter shouted an alarmed, “NO!”

Startled, I said, “Huh?”

“The macaronicini is amazing.  You must have it.  It’s my favorite.”

One friend switched her order and we were absolutely not disappointed.  Apparently the tortellini was delicious too, but that pumpkin … mmmm, such hearty flavor.  In Northern Italy, near the Sud Tirol, the food shows an interesting alpine influence.  Italian cooking — so regional.  Travel a hundred miles in any direction, and you’ve hit an entirely different style of cooking.  Living in Genoa, all the restaurants (and even the shops) feature ligurian cuisine, food from the land — simple compositions that let the ingredients shine.  But I get sick of the same thing over and over, and therefore love trying new cuisine!  YUM!

It was cold and wet, so we met up with friends at a bar.  They used to work with my colleague in China and are now at an international school in Albania.  We traded teaching stories, planned a visit, enjoyed lots of vino, then strolled through town, down cobbled lanes, into an old church with a funky pendulum, past a market, and then into another bar next to the coliseum, where I had 4 more glasses of delicious vino and aperitivos.  Chatting, enjoying, and relishing the evening.  Afterwards, we were hungry for more food and ducked into what we thought was a chill restaurant.  In our fleeces, with soggy hair, we didn’t exactly fit in with the packed crowd dolled up for date night, but we enjoyed our snug table by the open fire where the chefs cooked veggies and bread.  I had a simple onion soup, thick and tasty, while gnoshing on bread.  Then back to the hotel and to bed.

The weather got even colder the next day as the rain came down even heavier, so we decided to grab an earlier train home.  But first,  we grabbed a nice heated outdoor breakfast, featuring hot chocolate that was like melted candy bar … mmm… then we figured, hey why not . . . let’s go look for “Juliet’s House.”  Of course Juliet is fictional, but they set up a balcony and a bronze statue of Juliet.  Tourists rub her right breast for good luck in love and sex.  That breast was worn shiny by all the . . . love? I touched it quickly for a photo with silent apologies to the bard for the huge disgrace that must have him turning in his grave . . . but I couldn’t help it.  When in Verona . . .

The whole area, a little cove off a side street, has turned into a shrine for love.  Couples attach locks to a grate, engraved with their names.  Locks of Love.  I wonder how many of those relationships outlasted the lock.  I wonder how often someone comes over with clippers to ditch the locks.  And in the archway leading to the whole scene, couples doodled their names, initials, and love messages to each other within hearts.  The urge to mark, whether it’s a tree, a bathroom stall, or “Juliet’s” balcony.  The urge to preserve when everything is ultimately transient.

It’s hard to think of Romeo and Juliet without thinking of this song:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0fiXkvsKpdk

Here are some pictures from our trip:

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Backstreets of Venice

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Dad and I passed the gelato shop I visited in 2002 for my first real gelato, an addiction that kept me coming back sometimes 3 times a day.  I told him about the mini-tornado that swooped into Venice during my stay, turning the canals into giant wave pools, covering the stones with water along with a torrent of rain.  I slipped down the steps of the Rialto Bridge, running for cover with my hostelmate Katie, and we ducked into a bar shortly before they pulled the metal gate closed.  We were locked inside to brave the storm.  We had a few drinks and met a group of locals that showed us around afterwards.  We surveyed the damage, wind battered trees, and flower pots and window boxes broken everywhere.  A unique Venetian memory.

“Hey, Dad, my b&B was actually in this neighborhood.  It’s been 10 years, but I wonder if I could find it.”

With pure 10 year old memories, I navigated down the winding backstreets and said, “Ahh yes, up ahead, there will be a turn, a tiny bridge over a quaint canal, and then the street is shortly after that.”  Sure enough, we made it to the street and think we found the place.  Later, I checked facebook pictures on my iphone and found that I actually took a picture of the door back then, but we didn’t go back to check we were right.  Ahh technology!

While we were in the neighborhood, we went searching because I remembered many quaint restaurants for aperitivos, but I couldn’t find them. Was I on the wrong streets?  Did they close?  Nothing is constant except change, even in this well-preserved museum of a city.  Eventually we ended up in a charming square, the trees turning brown in mid autumn, folks quietly clinking their silverware against the plates under a starry night sky.  We picked one place in the far corner, and sat down for a beer and a meal.  I had the lemon chicken and Dad had veal marsala.

It was a long yet fun day.  We were exhausted, and wound our way to the bus station, the university section of the city before boarding a vaporetto back to our dock, Ca’D’oro.  I passed out on the bed in my clothes before 9:30.

The next day we woke up for another breakfast and checked out the rooftop terrace, which was a special surprise.  Beautiful and peaceful view of Venice from up there.

Boat day.  We boarded a vaporetto for the lido.  The Adriatic was bright blue, and I kept repeating, “It’s so pretty.”  I knew what it looked like, yet I was still happy and surprised to see it again.

At the lido, we walked along the main street, past holiday-style tourist shops selling flip flops and sand toys.  “It’s a totally different feel here,” said Dad.

“Yup, it’s connected to the mainland.  More of a resort.” Cars can drive over a bridge to get here, unlike in Venice.  There are plenty of hotels to stay here, and certainly more space, yet it lacks the charm of the tight, winding paths and canals of Venice.

We made it to the big, Sandy beach, and gazed out over the blue water, churning and turning gray under a stormy sky.  By the time we left the beach, the rain had started, and then it became like a shower by the time we arrived on the island of Murano, world-famous for its gorgeous, colorful glass.

We wandered up and down the streets, gazed at the shop windows (all selling glass except for a few that sold food).  We snacked on giant meringue, I nibbled–er, devoured Harbo gummy bears, then back on the boat, soggy and tired, to head for town.  We had decided to eat at the Hard Rock Cafe tonight.  I was getting very sick of the lack of variety in Italian food. I wanted a BURGER, and bacon and cheddar!  Dad is used to Italian food as well, growing up in NYC and with my family’s great cooking over the years (I’ve yet to find a restaurant that rivals many of the family dishes, including mama’s sauce).  Sidenote: Every time I tell people my family is from Piacenza, they always say, “Oh, the food there is the best!”

The Hard Rock Cafe was nearly impossible to find.  The map on the website was . . . wrong. . . misleading.  Google maps kept running us around in circles.  I even called the restaurant and the directions were confusing at best.  Eventually, my Dad stopped into a shop and got directions that were more clear, and we saw it, glass windows, facing a quiet canal filled with gondolas.  Normally a travel sin, but now an oasis.

We went inside, while some of my favorite songs blasted in my ears, and we orderd Nastro beer, noshed on cheddar nachos, and by the time our bacon burgers came, we were stuffed but continued.  Bruce played.  I smiled.  Our waitress was one of the top 3 I’ve ever had. Ever.  She was so lively, so fun, so funny, dancing in the aisles, joking with us – animated like a cartoon.

Then back to bed, where I passed out even earlier, I think.  Oh wait, there was a gelato first.  🙂

The next morning, we awoke for our last breakfast.  I went outside to try to get a pair of shoes really quick, and saw the ground had buckled.  Acqua Alta – the high waters.  They seep up through the clay in the rising tide and cause all kinds of damage.  Even part of the wall of our hotel had broken through, spilling clay.  A neverending battle.

They say one day Venice will be just like a museum, with no actual residents because it’s so hard to live here, to raise children when you have to navigate the streets, bridges, canals, vaporettos with a stroller.  They claim it would be like a Disneyland for grownups.  It would still be amazing, though, even if that happens.  Hey, as long as it’s here.  The Acqua Alta, though, has other plans.  See Venice while you can.

Ah Venezia!

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This weekend I returned to Venice for the first time since 2002.  10 years gone.  There is always a risk returning to a place you once loved and adored, a fear that you could ruin the magic and distort the original memory — like Wordsworth’s “Tintern Abbey” – the memory may compete with the current image in your mind’s eye.

Check out images from my first trip to Venice, featuring the 21-year-old me who inspired my current life.  This is for you, kiddo!  Stay fun!

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A little over 10 years ago, I strapped on an overloaded backpack after college graduation, and popped all around Europe, booking hostels on the Internet and changing plans as I went.  I originally booked two days in Venice, but fell so in love that I had to completely rearrange the rest of the trip, just for one more night.  I heard false rumors of the stench, dirty water, and decaying buildings — but instead found clean(ish) blue water, no noticeable scent, and buildings that were in charming states of renovation – preserving the beautiful architecture — architecture unlike any I’ve encountered in my travels since.

That first night, after wandering through back alleys following detailed and slightly confusing directions, I found my B&B, met my hostel-mate, and went out for a delightful aperitif along a small canal, enjoying the beautiful life.  As I wandered, explored, tasted gelato, gazed at the scenery, and soaked in the unbelievable feeling of being in a place I dreamed about my whole life, I was elated.  I kept thinking of the report I did in 4th grade, researching the city of Venice, and drawing detailed pictures with markers and crayons,  painstakingly copying the boats and canalsI found in my library books.  How amazing!  What would it be like to go there?  I need to see.  Then I did! [As a bonus, the next post will be cut and pasted from the blog of my youth, when it was so important to just get the ideas down — type, type, type — GO!  edit later.  You’ll see]

The trip was magical, and the city was hard to leave after just three short nights.  On to the Tuscan countryside and a new group of friends, sights and experiences.  But I always savored the images, still not believing I was there.  All my trips to Europe since then, I have not returned.  Now that it’s about 4 hours from my new home in Genoa, it’s a weekend trip for me.  It was Dad’s first time to Italy, and as beautiful as Genoa is, it’s not the highlight of an Italian tour.  He had to see one of the big three (Venice, Florence and Rome).  He also got some time to see the Milan train station, but more like in my previous journeys– unimpressed, worried about missing a train, and a bit rushed.  I’m happy to say that Venice was just as magical and impressive, swarms of tourists and all.

When Dad arrived last week, we spent an evening in Nervi (a typical Ligurian resort neighborhood minutes from my apartment).  We then went to Acqui Terme for the weekend to indulge in mountain views, thermal waters, and quaint Medieval Architecture.  The following day, Dad went off to Constance, Germany for more spas and lakeside views while I tackled the workweek.  Thursday, I darted off after teaching four 80 minute long classes and met him in Milan as he was on his way back from Germany.  I plopped into my train seat and gazed, dozed, and attempted to unwind while Dad caught up with all his stories from the past three days.

A couple of hours later, we rolled onto the causeway, glimpses of boats and lights glittering in the water on our way into the station.  Once outside, you are right there on the Grand Canal, in the heart of Venice, with gondolas, impressive domes and terraces of charming buildings, half-lit for the evening with a humble “Hello” rather than an all out “HEY! HI!  Look at me!”  Dad and I navigated the intricacies of the Vaporetto sysem (the waterbusses, the main hub of public transport in the city) and noticed that the machine wouldn’t take American cards.  How do we pay the 7 euros. 7 euros for a bus ride? Yikes.  As we figured out details and stressed about the “work” of travel, the buildings were there, a beautiful background as we were having our “Amazing Race” moments.  I had to remind myself “Calm down, you are on holiday. Enjoy!”

We met up with young American girls, maybe backpacking for a weekend during Study Abroad, and they said the guidebook said you can buy them on the boat.  We boarded, nobody asked, and we rode for free.  Whoops.  Gliding past buildings, peeking in windows, watching people stroll about, the city was magic at this time of night, empty, ours.  We arrived at Ca’Doro, our neighborhood — and we were so delighted with our choice.  We chose a basic yet nice 3 Star hotel near the action, but not in it, nestled on a quiet canal.  When we got to the hotel, after a magical walk through the streets, a neighborhood I’d never seen, I was shocked.  It was literally on the canal.  Up into the room, I peeked out the window and saw that we faced the canal with a stunning view — I couldn’t wait to see it in the morning.  After 11pm, we were exhausted but we were here, ready for a nice long weekend of exploration and beauty.  And as much as I love Genoa, I was happy to get away.

The next morning, we awoke to a basic but good continental breakfast in the dining area, then went out strolling and exploring Strada Nuova and all the shops.  Shopping is surely good in Venice, perhaps better than Genoa, which is interesting because everything has to be carted in on boats then hand trucked to the stores.  I had my eye on a few purses and clothes, but I was really here for the getaway and the beauty as well as spend time with my father — even though both of us were exhausted.  Take it easy, enjoy.

Friday, we did a lot of strolling about, to the Rialto Bridge and St. Mark’s Square, which was gratefully not yet flooded.  By Sunday, Acqua Alta had started to flood St. Mark’s Square as usual, and tourists had to walk on raised platforms.  These platforms are set up all over the city, especially this time of year as the high tide season begins in October.  Add this to the fact that Venice has sunken about 9 inches in 60 years, and we have quite a problem on our hands.  I’m hoping they use the 7 euro bus fee to help subsidize the massive projects in place to protect the city.  It’s quite fascinating, actually . . .they are building giant doors on the sea floor where the Adriatic spills into the canals of Venice, a city built on hundreds of little islands at the mouth of the Po River.  When the tides get high, the doors will go up and prevent the water from rising.  Sounds cool, like it could work in theory — but also quite dangerous if the city relies on this technology and it fails suddenly . . . If not done properly, could a rush of water flood the city to the dome of St. Mark’s Basilica?

It is quite amazing how well preserved this city is, given the age and the odds against it.  “See Venice while you can!” they tell us tourists.  And the tourists are coming, usually dumped in by the cruise ship load, in clusters of 3-4,000.  When these day trippers head back to their boats at night, only having glimpsed the most crushed, touristy parts of Venice, Rialto, St. Mark’s, the island of Murano for the glass . . . the city breathes again.  The streets become magical, and you can wander freely and get lost in time.  80% of the city is actually off the beaten tourist path, and if you take the time to wander just a little bit, you can enjoy the “real” Venice, when the ships are in port.

More about the real Venice and the magic of our visit.  And I’ll show the new pictures soon, this time embedded in the story instead of the slideshow.  Ciao for now.  Off to dinner with Dad, his last night in Italy.