Delicious Expeditions

When I refer to bright shades of red, orange, purple, and pink I’m not describing the flowers blooming in window boxes all over Venice, but rather the colors of Italian men’s pants. Add a pair of lime green and sky blue and you have their complete collection of summer wear.

“It’s red, not pink,” a Scottish friend once declared after I commented on the color of his shirt.

“Well, actually it’s almost fuchsia,” I countered, not realizing the severity of my words. “Pink, scarlet, salmon, peach…really, what difference does it make?”

“Pink is for puffers, and I’m not a puffer,” he assured me with a growing temper.

Obviously, Scottish, and most likely American men have something to learn from the Italians. Canary yellow, a bold lavender, nothing is out of their range. Throw in some espadrilles and thick white-rimmed glasses and you still have a real man, his masculinity completely intact. (Most likely this board generalization doesn’t apply to dock workers and underlings in the mafia.)

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Drums keep pounding rhythm to the brain…la di da de di….la di da de da

And the beat goes on…

And on and on and on and on….

Why are Sonny and Cher singing in my bedroom?

Honestly, that was my first thought this morning when I was awoken yet again by the staccato beat of sledgehammers. I knew the sound was coming from workers digging up the nearby sidewalk, but it nonetheless caught me by surprise. There’s a problem with the water lines hidden beneath the heavy stones and there’s no other way to fix it, or so I’ve been told.

When the noise begins to blend into the background of every day life, an older man in dusty overalls comes and sits by our massive front door and slowly whittles away at the wood. The abundant spring rains have swelled the door almost shut, making it difficult to use. Eventually he’ll work long and hard enough for us to come and go with ease.

In a world of water, humidity, and five hundred year old homes, maintenance is obviously a big issue.

greengrocer goes home

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A few nights ago I awoke from a deep sleep to find my bed furiously shaking from side to side. By the time I opened my eyes it had stopped. What a strange dream I thought before dozing off again. It had seemed so real.

When the swaying jolted me from my slumber yet again, accompanied by a loud crash, I turned over and blamed the bizarre experience on late night spaghetti alla carbonara paired with too much cabernet franc. But I had only had one glass…must be the pasta I surmised.

Violet Artichokes

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By now you’re probably wondering about the food. You want details and recipes, not just updates on the rapping rabbi* and Elverace’s wardrobe, even though yesterday’s outfit earned him the surname Cash, as in almost dead ringer for Johnny Cash…if it weren’t for the receding hairline.

My local market is the Rialto.** I’m not bragging, it’s just happens to be the truth. Two minutes from my door is a traghetto–a public taxi in the form of a gondola—that takes me across the Grand Canal. It deposits me in front of the market’s famed food stalls for the equivalent of 65 cents. I’m not able to stand up for the crossing as the Venetians do, but I can now get on and off without making the boat sway from side to side, no longer causing innocent, non-seafaring tourists to panic.

Venetian traghetto crosssing

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After twenty years in San Miguel, coupled with my obscure travels around the world, not much surprises me. Even yesterday at Billa, on a morning run to get fresh bread for breakfast, I ran across Elverace in what appeared to be his wife’s lacy nightgown and I didn’t even look twice. He and his outfits are now a familiar feature in my life. I no longer need to hide behind the Bellini display in order to get a discreet good look.

Then I went to a neighborhood restaurant called Paradiso Perduto (Paradise Lost). The chef and owner Maurizio has curly, grey, shoulder length hair and stylish glasses. Like Elverace, he sometimes wears his pajamas in public, especially when he comes in late at night to check his kitchen. The first moment I saw him I knew I would be a regular at his place. (He was stirring a large copper pot of polenta in a floppy chef’s hat while drinking white wine.) Maurizio is an anarchist; his restaurant motto—“good fish at good prices.”

Frittura Mista

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You might want to think twice the next time you bypass a copy of Vanity Fair in the grocery store aisle or airport. For the past fifteen years I’ve had a faithful subscription, following Dominick Dunne, the rich and famous, as well as minor nobility and scions of business. They were always distant figures in my life, but somehow I remembered the gossip and the incestuous relationships and now, in Paris, I can discuss their lives with their friends, pretending they’re my friends too…and it works!!

Paris? Did she just say Paris? I thought she’s supposed to be in Venice? I know, but believe me it was completely unexpected.

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I knew I had chosen the right place to live when I saw Elvis, or was it Liberace, at my corner grocery store–Billa. Cloaked in a black cape, a jeweled t-shirt glimmering underneath, he waited patiently in the checkout line. His jet-black hair, draped to his shoulders, hinted at youth; however, his aggressively receding hairline told a truer story of his age. Venetians in conservative wool suits greeted him warmly, inquiring about his day with little notice of his large rhinestone-studded sunglasses or dangling gold chains. He was one of them, a fellow member of my new hood—Caneregio.

There’s nothing I like more than eccentric individuals, people who move to the beat of a different drummer, or better yet, their own forty-piece orchestra. Venice is full of them, or so I have read, and I plan to befriend a few before the end of spring. Elverace is high on my list.

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Last summer I reviewed my life when I was I told I might not make it through an emergency surgery for a massive blood clot after an adjustment from a (Canadian, not to be confused with Mexican) chiropractor, I now call Dr. Death. Confronted with the surprising news, I was relieved I had recently made out my first ever Will. I was delighted I had chosen Mexico and a life of adventure and travel, and I even smiled with satisfaction knowing I had done almost everything I had ever wanted in lieu of playing it safe. Not bad, I thought.

I then sent a quick email to my friends saying thanks for the memories and goodbye. I made them promise I could have a gelato cart at my funeral and a slide show of Betty, my foster child in Malawi. (Don’t worry, on an intellectual level I do realize she’s a baboon.) I asked them to play an eclectic mix of music from my life, starting with Abba and the Bee Gees and ending well, with Abba (thanks to their Mama Mia! revival) and Michael Feinstein. They were only to serve the best prosecco before, during, and after the event, as well as memorize a few simple steps for a “Soul Train”-style procession down the church (?) aisle. “Don’t worry I’ll leave the choreography notes with the nurses,” I told them. “Oh, and if the Harlem Gospel Singers are available, book them and start a donation fund for their transportation and lodging.”

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If anyone thinks America has the monopoly on hot dogs they are sadly mistaken.

I didn’t truly discover this until I walked into one of Seoul’s premier bakeries. Squeezed in between trays of flawless croissants and perfectly executed fruit tarts were stacks of hot dogs, or at least a near relative of my childhood favorite. These “dogs” however were spruced up, baked in flaky puff pastry and wrapped with crisp bacon. They were offered as a quick meal to the bustling lunch crowd, workers who popped in for a bag of treats to take back to the office.

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Korea—honestly, it was a country I never thought about until I was offered a free layover after completing my cat nanny job in Mongolia. With Petey now safely ensconced in his new home, I was free to roam Asia; any country I wanted that connected Ulaan Baatar to San Francisco and then Leon. However, there were only three options: Beijing (visa issues), Tokyo (the tsunami had just hit) and Seoul (perfect!).

Looking for a place to stay, I found a youth hostel with excellent reviews. I had thought my days of community sleeping were over, but the place sounded so appealing I made a quick decision—return to my roots and embrace sharing a bathroom with twelve strangers.

Entrance of Hongdae Guesthouse

Within minutes of my arrival to the Hongdae Guesthouse, I had a home and friends. In between visiting the royal palace and national museum, I spent hours talking to Mr. Kim, the hostel’s enthusiastic thirty-something manager. He had a plan—together we would build an empire of Mexican restaurants.

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