La Fine

Italian 'Welcome' mat.

'Parting is such sweet sorrow'...  I never understood that phrase.  Where does the 'sweet' part come in?  Every time Hannes and I wrap our arms around each other in front of sour faced Customs officials at SFO or BRU and leave tear tracks on each other's shoulders, all I feel is the 'sorrow.'  If there is any sweet to be had, it was not in our farewell, but in the final days of our Italian Honeyloon as we tried to milk every last drop of our time together amongst the olive trees. 

You know you want this to be you.

Leaving the beautiful chaos that is Rome, Hannes, Emily and I headed North to Orvieto through some of the most beautiful countryside I've ever laid my well-traveled eyes on.  As the van whipped around the corners of twisting roads and the smell of our La Renella focaccia bread wafted from its alluring cardboard box, we breathed a sigh of contentment... and hunger.  A sigh which turned to glee as we found our way to Azienda Agricola Cioccoleta - a magical agriturismo B&B nestled in acres of luminous green vineyards and orchards.  We sipped a free bottle of their Orvieto Classico while chatting with the husband and wife who ran this oasis and watching the sun slip behind the hills for its own siesta.  That night I practiced my Italian in the streets of Orvieto to snag us a reservation at the most popular restaurant in town, Trattoria La Palomba.  As the words flew gracefully out of my mouth, I looked back at a stunned Hannes and Emily who smiled and patted me on the back for a translation well done.  So far I had come!  From blubbering idiot to semi-intelligible.  Not bad for a month's work. 

At the time we thought this adorable.

The following day we ate a leisurely breakfast of homemade cakes and then wandered through Orvieto in search of picnic delights and limoncello.  The three of us indulged in our last gelatos together and then said our goodbyes.  Even though I knew I'd see my roommate back in SF, leaving Emily was a symbol that the fun was almost over, so it was with a heavy heart that Hannes and I got back into the van without our pint-sized backseat passenger.  The Saturnia hot springs, however, lifted our spirits - along with turning Hannes' wedding ring from gold to blue to purple to green (nothing a little silver polish couldn't fix back on mom's farm.)  Although it's merely a chemical sulfur reaction, we took it as a symbol of love's constant evolution and the unexpected twists and turns of travel. 

That night my Camino Love and I spent cuddled up in the van, drinking Rosolio and champagne, eating porcini pasta and listening to the rain on the roof as wind shook us gently back and forth (add to that, pretending that we didn't wreak of sulfur.)  The last two days of driving were rough - thunderstorms coupled with a tunnel closure in Switzerland and a night spent at a truck stop hoping we weren't mugged.  But we had each other, if only for a few more days - basking in the sweetness of our Honeyloon and wishing that the sorrow would never come.

-----------

Orvieto's colorful church.

A curio shop in Orvieto.

Unknown cliff town we passed on our last day in Italy that made us want to never leave.

The only bright spot of my layover.

RxSw: Part Five...the last part - By Guest Blogger EO

Grandma's house-60 years ago

"Hi Grandma," Alex and I yelled into his phone as we were sitting in a cactus garden in Tucson, AZ. We had decided to give her a call to be good grand-kids and also to get the address of where she used to live while attending beauty school in Tucson 60 years ago. She gave us the address but told us not to go by because she had heard her old house was now terribly run down and in a bad neighborhood. So of course, after breakfast we decided to head straight there thinking it would be cool to see where she lived and it would also be a fun adventure to check out an "off the beaten path" area of the city. We snapped a few photos of the house which seemed to be in good condition in a fine neighborhood and went on with the rest of the day; not thinking too much about it.

Shadow of a Sequoia at the Wawona Hotel 

A few weeks ago my Mom and I paid a visit to my Grandma on our way to Yosemite. Over lunch, I showed her the photo of her Tucson home half afraid that she would be upset with me for going by the house even when she had asked me to not. Instead, tears began to well up in her eyes and she thanked me for taking the photo... She said that during her time in Tucson she didn't have much money, she was all on her own for the most part, but it was the happiest she had ever been in her life.
After lunch, my Mom and I said good-bye to my Grandma and made our way from the Central valley to the Yosemite valley where we would spend the day and night at the Wawona Hotel. The reason I chose this hotel and destination is because of a faint memory I've held onto since childhood of this exact spot. I remembered wrap-around porches and Adirondack chairs casually splayed on a roughly-cut lawn. I remembered the warmth of a summer day and the smell of redwood tress and sugar pines. I remembered how proud I was to know that this kind of beauty exists in my region of California. As soon as we pulled into the Wawona, these memories were actualized once more.

Look at this hipster Mom

After a short hike (first to the gift shop, Mom's request) we made it back to our room for a quick rest (aka, a bottle of wine). Then, we retired to the hotel parlor where we played a game of Scrabble and listened to an incredibly talented and kind pianist play a few requests as well as a song all about the beauty of Yosemite that had been passed down for generations by Yosemite Park Rangers to the tune of "Danny Boy." After a final drink, Mom and I walked back to our room with only the moonlight and a few lights on the wooden porch to guide us. We slept with the windows open that night to breathe in the fresh mountain air.
The next day after breakfast I dropped Mom off at her house and headed back to San Francisco, my home.  This last weekend in the city just happened to be one of the nicest I can remember. It ended up being a weekend filled with bike rides, laughing with friends on the back porch and even going outside at night without wearing a sweater! It was the kind of weekend that doesn't come around that often in this city. It's the kind of weekend that makes me happy beyond measure.
When I first returned to San Francisco from my road-trip I must admit I was not too happy to be back. All the bad things I left and the sad thoughts I felt came rushing back and I just felt the need to get away once more. I just couldn't think of a reason to stay. But now, as I'm watching the sunset from one window in my room and the city skyline from another I have a feeling that 60 years from now I'll look back on this time of my life with tears of happiness in my eyes too.

Me, last day of vacation.

Daydreams Of Civita

Civita di Bagnoregio is actually two villages connected by a long and steep pedestrian bridge battered by the wind.  On a sunny afternoon, after escaping Rome for the Umbrian countryside, Emily, Hannes and I traversed this bridge in search of history, bruschetta and breathtaking vistas.  Both medieval Civita and the bridge - the town's one and only link to the outside world - can be seen in this picture.  No cars drive here.  No roads lead in.  It's a pedestrian's paradise.  In fact, so few people actually live here that it's known commonly as "The Dead City." 

There's a story I love of a local Civita townswoman who used to walk her donkey across this bridge forty times a day to sell her fruit and vegetables in the Bagnoregio market.  Home now from my Italian journey with my Camino Love, I am wistful for a life I never lived.  Waking up every morning, tending my garden, bringing out milk for the local cats (which outnumber the human residents of Civita by about 10 to 1), making my husband breakfast bruschetta with sausage and tomatoes grilled over an open flame, sipping espresso in the sun as I gossiped with the lady next door, wrapping up a slice of ciambella for later, before loading up my donkey, walking under the 2,500 year old Estruscan stone arc and making the first of many of the day's treks across the great bridge. 

Now, I know this is a foreigner's romantic vision of truly hard, grueling work.  This in reality is a city slowly crumbling away to the valley floor below, and to walk forty times down the same path is tedious, I'm sure, not to mention dangerous in harsh winter storms.  Yet, to a screenwriter who sees a movie down every alleyway and wine cellar step, the Civita life seems intoxicating and rich.  It's a life I'll never lead but in my daydreams (I did a donkey ride once down the Grand Canyon, and hell will freeze over before I get on one of those cliff-hugging daredevils again), but I can at least sip an espresso in my sunny San Franciscan apartment, pour some milk into a saucer for my cat Jade, walk back and forth to the record player forty times to flip the vinyl, and text my roommate a bruschetta grocery list for tonight's dinner. 

Emily endures the long bruschetta wait. Looking the essence of Italian cool, I might add.

The view from my imaginary Civita home.

A door and window that lead to nowhere - the rest of the palace now a part of the valley floor.

City Mouse, Country Mouse

"Buon giorno!" I yelled up to your guest gypsy writer Emily and our Camino friend Juliano, after Hannes and I finessed his Campervan into our reserved parking space in front of our bohemian Trastevere apartment. Hannes, to my amazement, had remained calm driving into the one city Rick Steve's pleads you to "please not drive in" literally for fear of your life. As motorcyclist cut us off and lane demarcations disappeared entirely, I thought he would lose his cool, but he remained smiling and resolute to get us safely to our new urban dwelling where we immediately opened a bottle of Montalcino wine and ate almond macaroons to our hearts content.

What I will say of Rome is this: it is the best and worst of Italy. With every footstep there is an opportunity to marvel - at the history, the architecture, the quirks, the people, the food, the energy, the mysterious lanes dripping with wisteria, the art and craftsmanship that has played muse to many a writer like myself. But then, there's the dirt, the crowds... no, throngs of tourists, the impossibly long lines to see anything, the tired feet from traversing the ancient broken cobblestone, the noise, the swarming pigeons, the lack of public bathrooms. Having been a city mouse most of my life, I can find the beauty of both sides of the Trevi Fountain coin. You must accept one to fully appreciate and enjoy the other. As the wise Rick Steves (I swear I'm not working for him) says about Italy, you must chalk it all up to a "cultural experience." My San Franciscan roommate and I thrived in this environment, savoring a sunny rest on the Spanish steps, digging through racks of vintage Italian labels, deciphering the underground as if it were a life-sized game of Candyland (Sorry might be a more fitting game actually), and snacking our way through every Roman neighborhood... pistachio cannolli, cappuccinos with cream flourishes, egg-y Easter fruit cake, hazelnut gelato, crispy potato focaccia bread.

My husband, however, is more of a country mouse. Big cities interest him, but perhaps for not more than a day. He had trouble adjusting to it all, and try as I might, I couldn't convince him that the Borghese Gardens were as inspiring as the great outdoors. Our night of live swanky Italian music, as Emily described in her post, perked him up, which led me to ask Hannes why of all that we'd seen in the ancient city of Rome did that lift his spirit, to which he answered thoughtfully, "I like cities at night. It's more... magical." In some ways I agree. Like the noir films my mom eats up, under the cloak of night the scars of a city hide from view. Much of the tourists go to bed, the dirt blends in with the darkness, the moonlight draws out the angles of the Pantheon's granite Corinthian columns, the faint drone of an accordion woos, rather than irks you. There's a romance in the air, a sense of mystery and tenderness. My husband, folks, is a romantic. A man with a lyrical soul and wistful spirit. A lover of nature and make-up free beauty and kissing on a bridge under the big pizza pie of a Roman moon. His heart perhaps is too pure for the exciting fusion of creativity, craziness and crassness that is Rome. And this is one of the many things I love about him... and us.

I too felt the pangs of temporarily leaving behind our Campervan gypsy life. As I laid in bed listening to Romans howl at the moon, I thought of the owls singing us to sleep in our Umbrian campground. Was I becoming a country mouse myself? I think part of me always has been. The part that walked across England in gaiters, the part that trekked into the solitary heart of Maui's Haleakala volcano, the part that swatted mosquitoes for a penny a piece as my parents and I canoed through Canada, the part that loved sitting on her Nashville porch watching fireflies light up the tall evening grass, the part that met Hannes in hiking boots in the Spanish Meseta, the part that dreamed out loud over espresso of owning a small seaside B&B with Emily and Hannes far from the rush of traffic and city life.

So while my husband and I might be mice might from different lands, there's no one I'd rather hold hands with, whether under the shade of the mighty Colosseum or that of a lone oak on the Tuscan countryside.


---------
 Some Roman delights...

Hannes captures the essence of the city.

My favorite Italian masterpiece.

Film book finds at a cozy Trastevere bookshop.

Juliano, Emily and Hannes - the essence of Italian cool.

The Pantheon by daylight. Hannes is right; could use a wash.

Candied fruits at the market. Tip: Avoid the mandarins. Enjoy the kiwi.

Espresso stop with a side of daydreaming.

What a mall ceiling should look like.

Wisteria lane.

Cosmo's moon/My husband's Rome.

City mouse and country mouse together at last.

RxSw-Part Four - By Guest Blogger E.O.

Heading North

It all went down in a McDonald's parking lot somewhere a bit past Flagstaff, AZ. I was at a cross-roads; literally with one freeway sign pointing south towards Los Angeles and another pointing north towards Albequerque and my eventual final destination of East Zion. I had left the Extended Stay America in Phoenix in good spirits wearing a t-shirt and sandals thinking that the days predicted snowstorm would be highly unlikely. I mean, I wouldn't have minded a few flakes here and there. A nice dusting of clean white snow can be charming to see on the tops of tress and mountains as you pass them by in your fancy road-trip car with the heated seat on full blast. What I really hadn't expected was the actual snowstorm that came upon me. The kind of storm that has everyone driving 15 miles per hour on the freeway with almost zero visibility ahead of you. The kind of storm that had Tess' poor car swerving on the black ice. The kind of snowstorm that this California girl was not prepared for nor accustomed to.
I had actually pulled into this parking lot to use their bathroom and also try to recalculate my route into the GPS. Unfortunately, it wasn't recognizing my final destination and I had a feeling my cell phone would not be able to get service where I was headed. Also, anyone that knows me knows that I am the worst at directions and the best at getting lost. I began to have visions of myself stranded and freezing in some remote area of Utah. I began to think of the book, "Into the Wild" wondering what, if anything I needed to prove at this point. I began to think about how I was tired of staying in hotels (I never thought this day would come!) and how what I mostly wanted was a bit of sun, a comfortable bed and some familiarity.

Heading home

It's now about 6:30 in the morning (I'm still on Euro-time) and I'm writing this from bed at my Mom's house in Manteca, CA so I guess you know what decision I made. I drove 13 hours straight from that McDonald's to be here. Although I can't even begin to say how sad I am to have missed out on seeing the natural beauty of Utah's National Parks; I will say that I don't regret the decision I made. I feel that what I hoped to occur on this trip happened in Italy as was noted in my last blog. My faith in humanity was revitalized and amazing memories were gained. I've also traveled by myself on multiple occasions and what I've realized from these experiences is that it doesn't matter where you are but who you're with that makes your time in life memorable. I'm lying here with my favorite dog, Napper by my side. I'm planning to take my Mom out for a birthday breakfast as soon as she wakes up as I was in Italy when it occurred. Then, I'm headed back to San Francisco to see my favorite house-mate Tess and all my friends. No, I can't say I regret my decision at all to come out of the cold. Plus, I still have a whole week of vacation. So, if any of you readers out there have any ideas for me in terms of day-trips or local adventures please let me know!

Wine Induced Wanderings

As a native Californian who has defended her state's red and white against staunch French connoisseurs who claim their wine is the best on the planet, I am known to languish in a nice glass of the intoxicating brew now and again. I am not, however, an expert to any degree. I drink syrah out of a mason jar. And I'm not even sure I just spelled 'syrah' right, for that matter. I've wine tasted and popped in on lessons at local wine bars. I've even had friends and family who work on vineyards. But for some reason the information on varietals and undertones and casks flows in one ear and out the other as smoothly as pinot noir through an aerator.

Traveling through the hilltop wine towns of Tuscany and Umbria, however, I've gained a whole new appreciate for this lightheaded nectar of the gods. For one, Italian vineyards are amazingly photogenic. I mean, come on. Secondly, local Italian wine paired with local Italian cuisine really do make for an exceptional culinary experience. You come out of a trattoria after eating a bowl of pasta that melted in your mouth and sipping some Montalcino Brunello and, suddenly, the churches look more elaborate, the shop owners' faces a little friendlier, the cobblestone smoother, and the countryside like some vision of green and gold utopia you had only yet imagined in dreams.

So although I'm as close to a Sommelier as Jon Stewart is to being a Republican, I can assure you this - pick a house red in the aromatic and richly soiled hill towns of Tuscany and Umbria and you'll never ever go wrong.

----------

More pics from wine country...





It tastes just as good at camp.


Shopping for souvenirs in Montepulciano.


Grapes mixing company with olives.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

The Pilgrimage

Sorry friends (you especially my fellow gypsy writer, Emily), but I've been without wifi or free time for a while. Time to catch you up on this amazing Honey-loon, beginning with a saintly experience...

-----------

Having been Camino pilgrims, Hannes and I know what the adventure means - the patience, the stamina, the sacrifice, the marvelous fun of the unknown, the trials and joys of the spirit... the foot pain. As we settled into Assisi on Good Friday, we began to see the number of Easter pilgrims grow in boots and blisters; all of them with smiles on their faces despite their dirty clothes and the impending downpour. We looked at their sunburned noses and trekking poles and thought of them not as strangers but as 'our people'.

If you ever venture to Assisi yourself, you'll realize instantly the power of the place to lighten the heart's load. Sitting on its hilltop throne splashed in sunshine, pigeons swooping through its maze of church towers, tidy colorful shops full of St. Francis trinkets, the taste of the region's truffles swimming in olive oil, and the deep earthy smell of the oldest of stone permeating the streets, you instantly want to pull a Frances Mayes and buy a villa adesso, adesso, adesso!

But it's the story and legacy of St. Francis and St. Claire - friends of animals and outcasts - that truly give the town its life. Having gone to both St. Francis Elementary and High School, I've always had a soft spot for the 5'4" little saint. Hannes and I may not have been able to finish the psychedelic film version of his life, "Brother Sun, Sister Moon" a few nights later, but as animal lovers, we cant help but like the guy who preached to birds and whose statues include border collies at his feet. I for one sing to my cat on a regular basis. I get it. And who can't respect a guy who tossed aside the finest clothes in the land to stand naked in a square open to ridicule with a heart wide open for change? No Haight-Ashbury hippy has ever done it better or with so much meaning.

Okay, so Hannes and I shelled out extra Euros that night to wait out the thunder storm from the comforts of a cozy B&B... and we nearly fell asleep during an all-Italian spoken mass at the Basilica... and did, in fact, order two piatti each of truffled fare for lunch; all of which do not exactly make for a saint-like experience. But in an attempt to follow the way of our buddy Francis, we awoke at 4:45am the next morning, strapped on our old friends the hiking boots, and navigated in the dark of forest to take in the Saint's mountain hermitage at sunrise. Not to prove anything to ourselves (I'm okay with my non-saint status). But simply to stand in his tiny, solitary meditation cave as the sun crept over the mountain and olive fields below and see the world as he did; as a place of great beauty and tranquility, where everyone is welcome to take part, take peace and enjoy - from the leper to the alley cat and from the pilgrim to a pair of sleepy gypsy newlyweds.

Some Assisi memories...


A little church we found away from the chaos of the Basilica.










Something wicked this way comes...


Franciscan crosses as far as the eye can see.


Our little B&B where espresso and slices of sticky, pink, homemade fruit cake were unlimited.


The locals.


Our dawn pilgrimage to Eremo Delle Carceri.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

RxSw-Part Three - By Guest Blogger E.O.

 "Buon giorno!" I yelled out the window of our Roman apartment in the Trastavere down to Tess who was helping Hannes navigate his parking spot. "Buon giorno!" Tess finally yelled back after she had realized it was me doing the yelling.  I ran down the stairs to greet both of them with big hugs. We were all so excited this moment was finally occurring!
It had been a long day...I had awoken at 3:30am in the Travel Lodge in Phoenix to catch my flight to Rome. There had also been a 5 hour layover in New York. Juliano, who is a friend Tess and Hannes knew from the Camino had met up with me prior to their arrival and even with an espresso, I was fading fast and felt so bad for not being the best company. Luckily, once they had settled in a bit we all realized we were famished and very much looking forward to our first Roman meal; which of course did not disappoint. After that, we settled in for a quick nap and a shower. Past that point, the energy of this beautiful city easily kept me awake.
On our second night there, we met up with a local friend of a friend. He treated us to espresso, then took us out to a cozy wine bar. After that, we popped into an awe inspiring church for a second and then he invited us to small club where his friend's band was playing classic Italian songs from the 50's. It was somewhere between the church and the club that I came to the realization that my faith in humanity was beginning to grow stronger with every step.

I'm presently writing this from the most beautiful B&B tucked within the rolling hills of the Umbrian country-side. The view from my window is that of vineyards and cypress trees and it is absolute and obvious perfection. To find beauty in a place that is man-made on the other hand can be a bit more daunting. The streets of Rome are narrow and roughly cobble-stoned, the ochre colored city lights cling onto the buildings on which their attached as if to only confirm that neither is interested in moving out of the century from when they were originally built. The marble fountains of water you'll find coming from a building on random street corner, the frescoes on the ceiling of a building that is not on any tourist map, the way bicyclists ring the bell on their Peugeot's before passing you by...all these examples happen to be things that I found to be just as incredible as the natural vista from my window. The fact that they still exist brought me to a place mentally that felt a lot like being in love. It's interesting to think of how love and faith are so connected.
Which brings me to my final thought on my time in Rome. Out of all the man-made sights I was able to appreciate; I will have to say that the most awe-inspiring scene was the way Tess and Hannes looked and acted around each other. Just like a city, they could be a bit gross at times (with all the making-out they did) but what was most noticeable was the love they both have in each other and how with that, perhaps faith in everything you see all around you becomes a bit easier to find.

Thanks to both of them for allowing me to crash their honey-loon for a few days and I wish nothing but the best for you both on your amazing new life together!

A Room With A View

When you're in a Campervan tootling around the Umbrian Italian countryside, something begins to transform in you... mainly, your faith in hotels. Why would you want to deal with snotty receptionists, views of dirty back alleys, overpriced rooms and cramped showers, when you can pull up in your little van to Lago Trasimeno and for just 25 Euros, get all this...?



A VIP parking lot...


An expansive balcony...


A room with a view...


A delux entertainment center...


Fresh local flowers in your room...



An authentic home-cooked pasta dinner...


Picture perfect sunsets...


And a 24-hour fitness center.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Orvieto, Italy