Delicious Expeditions

Most of you know by now that I’m a proud member of homeexchange.com. I often boast of my month in Prague living next door to the Prime Minister, my summer in Vermont lazing around a picturesque 18^th century farmhouse, and let’s not forget my posh apartment in Manhattan.  I don’t look for these experiences–they find me.

Wanted: a place in San Miguel in exchange for our home in Provence, or our beach house in Bali.

I’ve more than once sprained my finger hitting the reply button. (It’s a contest you know, getting to your fellow exchangees before anyone else does.)

I chose France, three weeks in the foothills of the Alps, near the Luberon, the region made famous by Peter Mayle and his book, “A Year in Provence.“ It’s home to the Cote du Rhone wine route as well as numerous lavender farms, ancient olive trees and quaint medieval villages.

Lavender Before The Bloom

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In June of my 17^th year I went to Germany on a summer exchange program. I lived with a family in a large house on Lake Constance, a picturesque body of water that borders Germany, Switzerland and Austria. My German father was a former movie director turned naturopath, my temporary mother an ex-movie star. The children slept in a separate wing of the house, connected by a kitchen that was the realm of a full-time cook who showered us with cakes and tortes, three-course lunches and late night snacks.

There was a pool and a sauna, as well as a patio and a garden that backed onto a French army barracks. It was a relic from World War II when the Allies divided the conquered country into zones. I loved waking to the sound of soldiers singing as they passed by on their morning run.

My German family usually gathered in the sauna after dinner and I joined them… once, excited and eager in my one-piece bathing suit. They were there waiting, as promised, but had forgotten to dress for the occasion. To say I was shocked by their naked bodies would be an understatement. After all I was a quiet, somewhat conservative girl from Texas who had never sat around naked with anyone before, much less my own family. It’s just not something we did. I remember looking at the ceiling as we discussed who killed JR. They assumed, as a Texan, I had all the answers.

I can’t show you my naked German family, so here’s some fresh garlic at a market in Provence instead.

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The term “bucket list” never appealed to me, instead I prefer to say that I’ve compiled a list of future experiences—a wish list that will take me around the world and allow me to discover new places and entertaining people. For the moment joining a rowing club in Venice is high on that list. Even though I’ve never been particularly athletic, I discuss going to the gym and even playing tennis like it’s actually going to happen. But I don’t do these things; I only talk about doing them over coffee and cake. So, when I learned Venetian rowing was more about eating and drinking than actual exercise I knew I had discovered my “sport.”

A Two Man Row Boat

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I heard angry murmurs of “lazy thieves” and “Why do we pay taxes?” as I waded in knee-deep water spilling over from Venice’s canals. My fellow pedestrians, with their legs individually tucked inside large trash bags, were not in the best of moods.

I knew something was up this morning when a friend handed me a pair of bright red rubber boots and said, “Take these.” I hesitated, thinking she was being overly cautious. I mean, red boots really aren’t my thing. I’m not very good with bright colors, preferring to blend in with blacks and browns instead.

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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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