Sadly, the food near my hotel wasn’t very good. I guess I used up all of my luck in Rome. But I did have a few memorable meals. If you ever see something in Italy that looks like this, don’t bother asking if it’s real.
Fishing Lab was a more modern, chef-driven restaurant than others I had encountered on my trip. I sat at the counter and after a while a thin girl with the side of her head shaved sat next to me and slammed down a cell phone that looked like someone had gone at it with a hammer. I thought, “Oh my god, Lisbeth Salinger just sat next to me.” She turned out to be a friendly student named Sylvia, who was happy to share food and practice her English.
The menu was unusual. One dish was called “Octopus Cordon Bluff: Octopus tentacles stuffed with pecorino cheese and fried in a citrus-scented breadcrumb, served with ginger mayonnaise.”I ordered tuna tartare to start and while it was fresh and clean tasting, I couldn’t handle too much of that weird stickiness. I had to tell the waitress it was too much for me. She asked if I wanted to cancel my main dish, but I wasn’t full — I was just sick of raw tuna.
For my main dish I had two half-orders. One of fried rock cod which turned out to be like little bacalao fritters with a garlic aioli. They were really good.
I also tried a plate of mixed fried seafood. The calamari was amazingly tender, as was the baby octopus, although it never seems to have much flavor. I think it’s usually there for the wow factor. I loved the tiny soft-shelled shrimp. There were teensy “juvenile fish” which made me picture them smoking tiny cigarettes and menacing the other seafood with little switchblades. Anyways, the juvies were intense. The very first one punched me in the palate with fishiness. Not bad, kind of like anchovies. My friend Tequila would have loved them.
At 4 in the morning on our last night in Rome, Bridin told me she couldn’t leave me alone in Italy with my terrible cough and she found an American hospital to take me to. I was sure it was just allergies and jet lag, but I thought about how frustrating it was to talk my mom into going to the hospital, so I acquiesced.
After an exceedingly long Uber trip we finally made it to the desolate hospital, where we were greeted by the most debonair man I have ever met. He was wearing a finely tailored Italian suit and he smoked cigarettes, which somehow looked cool like in old movies. When he spoke English he had a Jersey accent. I thought maybe this place is where people in NJ come from? But Bridin asked him and he had spent most of his life in Jersey.
The doctor told me I had bronchitis and wrote a note to the pharmacy. I was surprised they would accept a note. After filling the prescription the pharmacist gave me the note back with some antibiotics. He also gave me this stuff, which got me WASTED.
The train ride was lovely. Paying an extra 20 bucks for business class is really worth it. The chairs are super-comfy.
And you pass all of those mustard-colored houses and Cypress trees from your Under the Tuscan Sun fantasies.
But if you have an international adapter, make sure not to put the wrong plug in the socket. A big flash went up and everyone in my train car looked worried, then they all Tsk-tsk-ed me. They actually made that sound.
Hotel Cavour was very fancy and the people were friendly. Fewer people spoke English in Florence than in Rome, but they were much more helpful and patient.
I had to rest and get better, which sucked because I wanted to see the museums and I had packed a special dress for the opera. But if you have to be sick, a luxury hotel is the place to do it. I felt like Eloise at the Plaza. Unfortunately, the hotel had no room service, but they did serve an American-style buffet breakfast. The cut-up hot dogs were understandable. Someone must have convinced them, really! They eat sausages for breakfast in America! The steamed vegetables were a little more perplexing.
Don’t you totally want this couch?
I would like this mirror, but a little more ornate, please.
I forgot that in Italy the ground floor is 0, not 1, and I pressed 1 in the elevator and came upon this when the doors opened…
I mean if you’re going to remodel, don’t you take down the pictures and remove the furniture? Who is that bed waiting for? Or what? On my last day I asked an English speaking desk clerk what the deal was. “Oh, they are fixing it up” was all he would say. I’m both relieved and a little disappointed that he didn’t say “Ohhh… we don’t let anyone in that room — not after the murderrrr….”
And is it the fever dreams or is my name in the wallpaper?
I was kind of burnt out from all of the walking, but Bridin encouraged me to go to some of the places on my to-do list. I love marble cemetery angels, and The Protestant/Non-Catholic Cemetery was highly recommended. It is also a cat sanctuary — what a fantastic use of land.
It also meant there was a little center for the sanctuary, so someone is always there and it’s not creepy. Plus they have bathrooms. Not to be underestimated.
The memorial most likely to buy you a drink
This little boy may be the creepiest statuary I have ever photographed.
What on earth is going on here?
Their wide array of sculptures includes some seriously bereft angels and cherubs.
Before I went to Italy, I read a number of articles advising you on the do’s and don’ts of travel in Italy. Let’s talk about some of them.
Italians serve their bread dry. Don’t ask for butter or olive oil.
On the third day, Bridin declared, “I don’t care. I want butter. I AM a tourist.” Seriously, why are we trying to hide it? The minute we open our mouths they know where we are from. And probably one glance at my freckles rules me out as a local. Anyways, being able to travel internationally is a privilege. Why should we be ashamed of that? Embrace it.
Cover your knees and shoulders in church or the Vatican
This one I agree with. I think it’s important to respect the values and social mores of a country related to things like religion and modesty. I noticed none of the people ever had their shoulders exposed, anywhere. No talk tops or sleeveless shirts. I did not notice anyone’s knees.
Italians eat pizza with a knife and fork.
Not so much. Most of the pizza places are take-aways, and the people I saw eating pizza in restaurants used their hands. But no one ate anything out in public, and when I wandered down the street munching on panini people openly gawked at me. At first I thought they were jealous of my sandwich. Then I thought it was because I was eating meat on Ash Wednesday outside the Vatican. But I eventually got the vibe that I was being crass. So where were people eating all of the food I saw them buy? Hiding behind ruins?
Watch out for traffic. Lines on the road are just decorative.
Totally true. One woman walking to the Vatican with us stood in the street while waiting for the light to change. I saw a driver waiting to turn right get angrier and angrier. I had to yank her out of the way just as the driver went ahead and turned right, and zoomed through the space where she had been standing. The tourist looked at me in shock. I deadpanned, “They don’t care.” I noticed it was often a matter of playing chicken. One gorgeous woman glared at my cab driver like, “I DARE you to hit me” as she crossed in front of him. Then, on my last day, I screamed, “Look out!” as a driver backed into a crowd of people on a plaza. One guy jumped, but still got a little bump before the driver threw the car into gear and took off.
Italian people are super-friendly and warm
One of the American TV show hosts said, “All of the nonnas in the restaurants loved my children and would pull them into the kitchen. When we returned to the same restaurant we were treated like regulars.” Well, yeah. The people working in the restaurants, tour guides, hotel staff and shop owners cooed over me. But the operative word is “working.” Those people make their money off of tourists, so it is their job to make you happy, and they probably have more exposure to us Americans and our weird behavior. I only made one “friend” on the entire trip who was not working in hospitality.
When entering a place of business, you must say “Buon Giorno” to the staff or it is considered very rude, like entering someone’s house without knocking.
People on the street do not smile at you and greet you. I often do goofy things, like drop my bag or trip over stones in the road. In America, I look around to see if anyone saw me being a dork. Onlookers in America look at you with a wry, sympathetic smile or may even say, “I hate it when I do that!” or “Aren’t these roads slippery!” In Italy you are met with disapproving stares, like, “Another clumsy American!”
I can’t help smiling at people I pass, and the nonnas would glare angrily back at me, which made me kind of passive-aggressively smile even bigger. “You don’t like THAT smile? How do you like THIS SMILE???”
I don’t know how Italians behave if you aren’t a random tourist and come to their house as a guest or are introduced by a mutual friend. Probably super-friendly and warm.
Sometimes Italian toilets are just a hole in the floor
Well, OK, but rarely. The boys in my husband’s band saw a lot of that on the road, but it’s not like you are defecating in a hole into the basement. It’s as if you took your toilet off the ground. There is still plumbing, and it flushes. The guys got around it by going into “bars” for espresso, and there were usually regular toilets there. If not in the Men’s Room usually in the Women’s.
I only saw regular toilets until I arrived on Capri. I stopped dead in my tracks, and a man gestured at me to say, “Yes, that’s the ladies room.” But he did not understand my problem.
I encountered these toilets all around Napoli. Even in the big train station. It was hard to squat without peeing on your pants, and I was always afraid of falling. When it was time to fly home I thought, “But I just figured out how to use the toilets!” (Take off a leg of your underwear or pants. Or take them off and hang them on the partition. Straddle the toilet backwards and rest your hands on the wall. You’re welcome._
Italian people are more fashionable and you should dress up.
I took that to mean “pack a few nice dresses for restaurants and churches.” That was not what it meant. Italian people are heavily tailored. They wear a spotless uniform of perfectly cut jeans or pants with nice shoes and a puffy quilted down jacket. Speaking of shoes, they hate it when we wear sneakers. But they aren’t walking 9 miles a day through museums and historical sites. They also have shoe closets nearby. Travelers don’t have the luxury of packing 8 different pairs of shoes.
After worsening shin splints, I finally started wearing my river shoes, a cross between sandals and sneakers — which everyone hated. One woman in the train station looked me up and down between my shoes and face with open disgust, like I had dog shit on my feet. I just thought smugly, “Yeah? What are you all dressed up for? To go to work. I am going on a magical European vacation, so suck it.”
Rick Steves promotes the idea of “blending in,” and in one video he points out a group of Americans and Italians sitting on the steps laughing together. He uses them as a perfect example of getting to know the locals when traveling in Italy. First of all, we know those people were actors, hired and paid for this scene. And unless you are a single person under 30, your chances of establishing tight relationships with the locals are pretty slim. I’m sorry, your hostel days are over. No more snogging with randoms at the music festival. Anyways, Rick Steves, with your red hair, backpack and khaki shorts, do you really think you’re blending in?
I will tell you how you can blend in. I believe every Italian is assigned a quilted down jacket upon birth and changes them out like shells every year. Almost every single Italian I saw was wearing one. Buy the quilted jacket and be one of them.
When it’s warmer, they switch from the parka to the shorter jacket style
And when it’s really warm, they switch to the vest. Even the gondoliers wear the vests.
So I photographed and made fun of these jackets for 2 straight weeks. Then I left my coat in Venice. I had to buy something or freeze to death for the rest of the trip. When in Rome…
The secret to not waiting 3 hours in line for Italian museums is to cough up 30 bucks or so for the “skip-the-line” guided tours. At the Vatican Museum they start about two hours before the museum opens. The only problem is that then you have to follow a guided tour. I don’t know if it’s ADD or individualism, but I can’t seem to stay with a tour. I kept jumping ahead and lagging behind, making the tour guide insane. At one point I told her I had to go to the restroom and she tried to make me wait for the scheduled restroom stop 20 minutes later. You can’t make a woman over 40 wait that long unless you want to see what the goofy-looking Swiss Guard does to people who pee on the floor of the Sistine Chapel.
The Vatican Museum is a collection of marble, gilt and gold like you have never seen. It is really overwhelming. The entire ceiling is awash with gold. Some of the statuary is really trippy. There is an entire room of male nudes with their penises lopped off, thanks to Pope Pius IX and Catholicism’s weird obsession with the human body. I wonder where they keep all of the penises.
Babies and creepy children are allowed to keep their penises, because chopping them off would be weird, right?
And boobs are cool. In fact, the more, the better.
Foot fetish? No problem.
There are a lot of babies in the museum. And a lot of beheadings. None of John the Baptist though. I think these are Judith. At least one of them clearly inspired Artemisia Gentilischi.
The guide was really into the 4 Raphael chambers. Lots of muscular butts.
And what was Sylvester Stallone doing there?
You heard me.
There is a lot of Egyptian art there too, but I guess the guide had to pick and choose from the miles and miles of art. But before the Sistine Chapel she whisked us off to the snack bar past a Chagall and two Dalis. I complained, “You are skipping the entire 20th century!”
We made our way into the Sistine Chapel, where no photography is allowed. It is just as well because it allows you to totally become immersed. Everyone focuses on the ceiling, but the wall behind the altar is a gorgeous blue and had enough going on to keep me there all day. I sat on a bench and put on the glasses I never wear and just fell into the splendor. I found this picture online:
The tour guide forced me out against my will. I just wanted to stay there all day but for some reason I HAD to go to St. Paul’s Cathedral. Oh, The Pieta, well, that was almost worth leaving the Sistine Chapel.
But most of the art and design was kind of garish. Pope John Paul II’s tomb was there, and I almost wanted to pry it open and see if both of his forearms were still there.
I now know why Italians can eat so much pasta and gelato and still fit into their high fashion ensembles. They are so active I can’t keep up with them.
Tuesday we thought we would catch the hop-on hop-off tour bus and see a few sights. Our rented apartment is one block from the vatican, so it seemed like a bus that hits the tourist sites would stop nearby. But we had to walk about a mile to the stop next to the Palace Saint Angelis.
I wanted to see the Trevi Fountain, so we hopped off the bus at that stop. Again it was a much longer walk than we expected. Even though we are traveling off season, the square was a madhouse. But we were able to get close enough to toss our coins in the Fountain, guaranteeing our return.
We slogged back to the designated bus stop, but the bus goes so far so slowly we didn’t have time to make another stop before Bob had to get to his gig for soundcheck. An open double decker bus really is the best way to see a city, though, there were statues and ruins everywhere.
We had eaten a late breakfast, Bob and I splitting a prosciutto and mozzarella panini. Here the bread for the panini is very thin and crisp. It’s one of the best things I have ever eaten so greasy but with delicious grease. It’s ubiquitous here, kind of like the ham and gruyere sandwiches you can live on in Paris.
So we had a very small lunch of pizza by the slice before bob had to go meet up with the band. It wasn’t as amazing of an experience as you would expect.
Pizza in a cone
Later, Bobs mom, Bridin, and I had an excellent dinner at a random local place. Borgo pio has been very lucky restaurant-wise. Bridgin had gnocchi in a pesto that would make American pesto hide its face in shame. I had osso bucco, which wasn’t as hot as I would have liked, but was nonetheless spectacular.
Then we took Uber to such a desolate place our driver insisted on going to check it out before he dropped us off. I loved the driver because he spoke Spanish and we communicated perfectly in a sort of Spang-talian. It kind of screwed me up because now my Italian keeps lapsing into Spanish.
The club was cool, if a little small. Komatsu, the Dutch band that’s opening for them on this tour are very clean and tight. Heavy rocking. The Freeks were fantastic. I think the band challenges Bob, and having Jonathan there gives him a solid place to jump off of. At one point the band was doing their slow spacey prog rock and Bob was drumming fast and intense. Bridgin told me it was like the drums were our heartbeat. From the outside our bodies appear slow and placid, but inside our hearts are going a mile a minute.
One interesting thing about staying just outside the Vatican is that the tourist shops all sell Catholic merch. Usually Catholic stuff is made by religious orders but you could tell some of the manufacturers knew nothing about Catholicism. Proper rosaries are black or dark brown with the exception of children’s which can be white. The shop across the street had rosaries in such garish colors, like stripper colors. Of course I had that one blessed for you, Donna. From the Mary Magdaline collection.
In the back of one shop in Catholic alley I found a little basket of something bearing the image of Pope John Paul II which piqued my interest because everything else was Frances Frances Frances. I looked at the little disc and saw a carefully placed bone chip. It was a relic.
For those of you who don’t know, Catholics venerate relics — 1st degree relics are parts of the bodies of Saints, usually bone or hair or teeth. Even a bit of cloth can be a relic, albeit 2nd degree. Every church must contain a relic. The fancy new cathedral in downtown LA has an entire body built into the wall.
So when I saw the supposed relics of the Sainte Pope John Paul II I accused the merchant, “Fugazi!” He swore it was real, even pointing to a place on his forearm to intimate that’s where the bone chip came from.
I held my open palm bearing the relics out towards him, “What!!? Where the hell did you get these!!!?” He covered my hands with both of his and looked around in a panic then looked at me warningly.
Before coming to italy I had purchased several tours. One of them was to see the pope`s Wednesday afternoon talk. I certainly would not have bought a tour in order to get a ride if I had known our apartment was literally one block from the vatican. I spoke to the tour on the phone and they saw no problem and it was too late to get my own ticket.
The coach dropped us off even further away than the bridge of angels. As I walked, cursing the cramp in my calves, I applied some good old Catholic logic — your suffering could not even compare to the suffering of Jesus. Jesus had way more to contend with than leg cramps.
The huge square at the vatican was cordoned off into large seating sections thank god! Chairs! People were hesitant to approach the front but a lifetime of concerts has taught me to just keep walking towards the stage until somebody stops you. So I got 3rd row. Center!
Pope Francis appeared on one of those econo metal stairs on wheels they use to get high things off the shelf in Costco. A bunch of guys were pushing him way too fast so it was like
here…comes…the…pope…there…goes…the pope….
But I thought it was really cool he hit all the sections so everyone could see him up close even way in the back.
The talk was very long, exacerbated by the fact that it was interpreted into about 8 different languages. The sun was hot and of course there was no shade in St Peters Square. There is also no water available. They need vendors like at the baseball game. But. As I suffered from terrible thirst I thought about the Roman soldiers giving Jesus vinegar when He asked for water.
Pope Francis did give a nice homily about The Exodus not only being an escape but a journey of hope, and how in these difficult times we should choose to travel the way of hope.
As the Mediterranean sun bore down on me, I realized I only had to be there for two hours. Jesus had to hang out in the sun for three hours.
It was a long journey fraught with misadventure, but we have made it to Italy. I would not even be here without my brother Glen’s emergency delivery of my forgotten prescription to the airport. Bob’s mom Bridin rented a nice little apartment that just happens to be a block away from St Peters Square. The winding marble stairway to the third floor apt is certainly a workout.
The little cobblestone alleys are very safe feeling and near such a literal mecca that many people speak English. My Italian phrases are helping more than I expected.
Last night we had dinner at Taverna Angelico around the corner. We shared an appetizer plate. There was a semi hard cheese called “Pecorino di Pienza” I will dub it “pecorino magnifico.” Adorned with a light drizzle of honey, it may have been the best cheese I have ever eaten. I thought, “If the first thing I put in my mouth in italy is THIS good, it’s going to be one heck of a trip.”
From the interwebs:
This unique sheep’s milk cheese gets its name from the ancient city of Pienza, located just a few miles from Montepulciano. Pecorino di Pienza is considered the best pecorino produced in the Crete Senesi, a specific area within the province of Siena…Pecorino di Pienza, a favorite of Lorenzo il Magnifico, is a cooked-milk cheese made with whole, raw milk from sheep of the sarda breed (or possibly appenninica or sopravvissana). The sheep are raised out in the open and graze exclusively on the local flora. The aromas of rare plants that grow in the clay soil of the Crete Senesi (wormwood, meadow salsify, juniper, broom, burnet …) can be sensed in the sheep’s milk.
…After about 40 to 60 days the fresh cheese is ready to be consumed and has a soft, slightly spicy flavor. If left to age for five to twelve, or even eighteen (the best for grating) months, the cheese will have a 40% fat content, a full, long-lasting flavor. This aged cheese is not spicy, but has a tannic aftertaste and a soft, crumbly texture in the mouth. Pecorino di Pienza pairs perfectly with chestnut honey from Montalcino and the wines of the region, from Chianti to Montepulciano
The carpaccio was also unbelievable. Can I say drizzled twice in one post? I think I have to. The carpaccio was drizzled with an intense and thick balsamic. Unfortunately, I wasn’t as pleased with my pasta. Bob, however, loved my pasta as well as his own fish dish. The waiter noticed something was awry and so I told him I just wanted something light. I asked for an entire plate of that cheese. So delicious.
Every time I walk through Jackson Square I remember seeing Al Taplet selling his folk art for $50 and it makes me crazy that I didn’t buy one. I didn’t have 50 bucks back then anyways, but I still regret it.
“I avoid that bleak first hour of the working day during which my still sluggish senses and body make every chore a penance. I find that in arriving later, the work which I do perform is of a much higher quality.”
― John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces
When you’re in New Orleans, you always stop at the Cafe du Monde for their hot beignet. On this particular evening I left Bob to order and made my way to the ladies room. Or at least the line for the ladies room.
You know how industrial bathrooms have 2 gigantic toilet rolls encased in a plastic dispenser? When it was finally my turn, I was just sitting there, minding my own business and the goddamned thing fell right on my head! Roll and all! When I tried to get out of the bathroom, I was locked in! After much pounding and fiddling, I finally made my way out. I told the next girl, “Turn it all the way to the left, then hard to the right.” She said, “I’m not locking that door.”
Monday we went to one of my favorite attractions — the aquarium!
We were right there at Pike Place so we took a little wander. You absolutely can’t go to Seattle and not eat at Beecher’s, where they make their own cheese. I had my usual mac and cheese and Bob tried their crab grilled cheese which was as good as it sounds. We also had the chowder sampler at Pike Place Chowder Co.
After watching a movie in our room until around 10pm Monday night, I realized I was hungry. I had only eaten crab claws and half a cup of jambalaya all day. So I called down to room service and ordered steak frites, profiteroles and an iced tea. What followed was a comedy of errors like a Benny Hill episode with the poor bellhop running all over to the tune of Yakety Sax. I was especially amused by the line, “I’m sorry I did not bring your profiteroles. I did not know what they were.” And comically, every time he showed up to fix something else he brought another iced tea.
Finally I ordered a calzone from Magazine Street Pizza and I swear it was the best calzone I have ever eaten!
The next morning I had my heart set on Mother’s. But Bob was hungry and wanted to visit the hotel’s breakfast bar. I thought it was strange to have a free continental breakfast at a hotel of this caliber, but there it was. After we finished, a server appeared and handed us a check for $50. We were so upset! There was no sign or verbal warning that it wasn’t free. 50 bucks for a couple of pancakes and a piece of bacon. Oh well, we decided, with the amenity we were actually still $50 ahead. In fact, we were $50, 1 birthday cake, 2 profiteroles and 4 iced teas ahead!
In order to get low fares, I had booked our flight out of LAX at 5:50am. We had to get up at 3am! We figured we would drop off the luggage and then wander around like zombies until check-in time. Well, apparently I had signed up for some Omni membership plan because they upgraded us — and our room was ready. Right away. Oh heavenly sleep! We were snoring away in the comfy beds when someone knocked on the door.
“Who is it?”
“I’m a hotel employee ma’am. We have an amenity for you.”
“Is it a DO NOT DISTURB sign?”
As soon as I opened the door I felt like an asshole because they were bringing up a birthday cake and a card signed by the employees for me. SO SWEET.
A little while later we were awoken by the telephone ringing. Bob answered and they asked him if he wouldn’t mind looking for a Hawaiian shirt a previous occupant had forgotten. Bob asked if they could do this later. They told Bob, “He is standing here and he is very…insistent.” So Bob had to turn the light on and I suggested Bob take his own Hawaiian shirt down and insist it was the only one he found in the drawer. But Bob understands that there are people who don’t appreciate my sense of humor, and he produced the man’s shirt.
We woke up later in the afternoon and discovered an envelope on the floor. I cooed, “oooh! Another amenity!” It sure was. Inside was a card apologizing for housekeeping’s lack of thoroughness and a credit for $100 to be used all at once. They only had a small cafe, but the Omni Royal was home to the much-awarded Rib Room, so we made a reservation for Tuesday night.
It was still sunny, so we took the Riverside streetcar to our favorite local place on Decatur: Coops. The streetcars don’t turn around. There is a steering wheel on either end. So when they hit the end of the line, the operator walks down the row slapping the seatbacks so that they slide to the opposite side and are now facing the other way.
My favorite thing at Coops is deep fried crab claws with an intense horseradish cocktail sauce. Bob usually gets pasta opelousas, but this time he ordered the sauce on a chicken breast instead of fettucine. I ordered a side of rabbit jambalaya, which was much spicier than I remembered.
Jonathan, a close friend of ours (and best man at our wedding), recommended breakfast at “Lula’s.” I suddenly realized he meant Lola’s. another Tom Douglas restaurant I had visited on more than one occasion. He insisted we try “Tom’s Favorite Breakfast.” It was a bit steep for breakfast at almost $20, but Jonathan knows his food. Tom’s favorite breakfast consists of: mediterranean octopus, sugar snap peas, spring onion, potatoes, bacon, green garlic yogurt, poached egg, and toast.
Bob had to say it was the best breakfast he had ever eaten. I tried a bit of the tender charred octopus, but went with my Seattle staple, a morels omelette. Sometimes I will even add fiddlehead ferns if I’m feeling crazy. Their smashed potatoes are whole new potatoes bashed with a cast iron frying pan and sprinkled with kosher salt.
