Delicious Expeditions

I used to be shy and then I wasn’t. I owe this change of character to my life-threatening surgery when I had to bare it all for doctors and nurses and then the caretakers who had to bandage areas of my body I couldn’t even look at. Were there really staples running across my once semi-flat abdomen? I was briefly horrified, but then I gave up. I surrendered. In the long run this is a gift, an enormous gift to not care what anyone thinks.

And so, my shyness disappeared. It evaporated into thin air, just like the man I’ve corresponded with lately. I’ve now been accused of being the life of the party–a role I never played before, but one that seems to suit me well…if I’m in the mood. I’ve taken my new talent on the road, meeting and talking to anyone who will listen. I love traveling alone, giddy with the anticipation of new faces and never heard of before stories.

il Duomo, Florence

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I had a café for twenty years and then I didn´t. And even though I enjoyed not dealing with the long list of problems, I missed the free (well, not really) meals and almost constant companionship.

I cook for a living, preparing banquets for 200, botanas for 50, but the idea of  making something for myself in a non-restaurant owner world required too much effort. I wish I could say I finally lost some weight, but what I really did was order a lot of pizza.

So now I’m back in business, feasting on French toast and omelets that someone else prepares. I’m seeing my friends and faithful customers, hearing about their days and listening to their stories.

El Buen Cafe’s new home—Sabino 26

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The creek of metal followed by the slap of wooden shutters against stone walls starts the day. They sound one after another in the mountaintop hamlet of Montone. Calls of “Ciao!” and “Buon Giorno!” ring through the streets; birds sing in the distance.

I open my own shutters and gaze upon a valley of green hills with pristine rows of Ceders of Lebanon. Centuries-old farmhouses stand in the distance. Fields of tobacco, their leaves tinged yellow, dot the landscape–for probably the last time. After almost four hundred years, Umbria’s historic crop will disappear. EU subsides are ending as farmers contemplate a new future. Some are experimenting with herbs and legumes; others choose to cover their land in solar panels. Even though they distract from the picture-perfect scenery, it’s a smart move in a country where energy is costly.

My Room with a View

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“Excuse me?” I stammered, thinking I had misunderstood the man standing in front of me.

“I was saying their G-strings were small and sparkly,” he continued. “Mamma Mia! You should have seen the look on my mother-in-law’s face.”

“But, signore, I was inquiring about the truffle festival.”

“I know. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

I had just asked a local man which festa di tartufi to attend while in Umbria. You see, there were two on the same day.

Just Found Black Truffles

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With just one sip of cappuccino I knew I was back in Italy. It’s been three months since I experienced the joy of perfect coffee. Some people say the secret is the water; others insist it’s the milk. I don’t know the answer, but I do know that even the best coffeehouses in America can’t duplicate the silky, satisfying flavor.

A Perfect Cappuccino

Surrounded by men in tailored suits and women in stylish outfits, I finish my coffee with a contended smile and walk back into the beautiful chaos that is Rome. It’s business as usual–pedestrians scurrying through the cobbled streets only to be stopped in their tracks by guide book-reading tourists and darting Vespas.

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I heard him before I saw him. Pounding his keys to a ragtime tune resembling Joplin, his head bent forward, his fingers flying. I can’t say his playing was the best I had ever heard, but his stage was the most unique I had ever witnessed. The young musician and his piano were parked on a small barge heading down the Grand Canal. These sturdy vessels normally haul building materials, boxes, and sometimes mail…but a grand piano? This was a first, at least for me, but probably not for Venice.

I inquired about the floating musician, however, no one seemed to know who he was, nor did they think his impromptu concert unusual. Canal traffic proceeded along as usual: vaporetti, taxis, gondolas, traghetti.

ice cream delivery

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“So you pull up on your boat and the girls just jump in?” I questioned Gianni.

I thought I was trying to console a friend’s twenty-year old son after his recent break-up, however his wisdom was greater than mine. I was giving him the “There’s plenty of fish in the sea” speech, with a few entertaining antidotes, but he was one step ahead of me.

“You see, here in Venice it’s easy to get over a girl,” Gianni continued with the utmost authority. “You loose one and there’s another five hundred arriving at the train station. I won’t be alone for long.”

Hard at work, Venetian-style

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True Confession: I’m a linguistics nerd.

I love languages—the soft, flowing melody of French; the challenging, puzzle-like grammar of German; the impossibility of Slovene; the soft sh common to Portuguese and Argentine Spanish. My goal was to speak five languages by the age of 25, eight by my 30^th birthday, and then ease off and be satisfied with a total of ten for the rest of my life.

Another True Confession: I’m just a little bit behind schedule.

Another lovely day in Venice

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Johnny Depp is my neighbor. What can I say? It’s true. He’s not my next-door neighbor, nor does he live down the street, but rather across the Grand Canal, only 10 minutes away. I walked by him last week, not recognizing him for who he was, but rather for his strange attire. He wasn’t hard to miss, wearing a charcoal grey fedora hat, a tailored vest, and flashy jewelry. I do believe, if my memory serves me right (which is sometimes debatable) that there were chains involved. Yes, lots of silver chains and large, stone-studded rings. Yes, rings. He was walking with an incredibly thin woman. A waif of almost nothing, dressed in jeans and very high heels. As I passed the strangers I mumbled, “Would somebody please feed her.”

When our paths crossed again later in the day, I did a double take—could it be? I have actually stood next to Johnny, in San Miguel when he was in town shooting, “Once Upon a Time in Mexico.” I was never introduced to him; I just stood next to him for all of 20 seconds. It was enough time to note that he was my exact height, and I was twice his width. I hate to admit it, but this is also true.

Nope, not Johnny Depp. I would never dream of doing a paparazzi number on him, so instead here’s an interesting door knob.

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By now you may have discovered I have a thing for impromptu dance scenes and oddly dressed eccentrics. So, with this in mind, you won’t be surprised to learn that the highlight of attending La Bohéme at the famed Fenice theater wasn’t the opera, but rather the activity at the bar next door. Before and after performances, and during intermission, the place fills up with theatergoers who order flutes of champagne and glasses of wine. They stand around talking and looking beautiful, being seen, and also seeing.

Speaking of oddly dressed eccentrics, may I introduce you to Elverace Cash (remember?? Elvis + Liberace+ Johnny Cash

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