Mecca

The famous House of Fendi in Rome's "shopping triangle"

Most visitors to Rome make a pilgrimage to the Vatican, feeling the rapture of their faith and religious beliefs. 

I'm all for that, of course, but I'm not Catholic and so a large portion of the beauty of the Vatican is lost on me.

However, I am a big believer of beauty for its own sake and I have a strong affinity for the authentic quality of certain Italian design houses.

Namely, Fendi. 

I've purchased a few pairs of sunglasses from Fendi on previous trips to Italy and this time I only wanted to visit my beloved Casa Di Fendi, as a gesture of my undying affection. Sure, there are knock-offs on every street corner, but the true Fendi goods are so beautifully designed, they take my breath away. When I entered the building and tooled around the ground floor to the Sala di Scarpi (shoe room), there was a well-to-do woman busying several Fendi salesmen with requests for this stiletto and that mule... I watched her in my periphery as she pranced in front of the mirror.

I just had to sigh. Oh, to be her for that moment. 

Sigh. Fendi. (*shaking my head, smile on my face*)

I ached my way through the masterfully displayed heels and leather ballerina flats and leopard print stilettos. 

It cost nothing, and yet, it means the world to me, to know that beauty like that - designed simply to be beautiful - exists in the same world as I do.

Healthy Travel Tips via Kris Carr

I love Kris Carr. If you're not familiar with this saucy green goddess, do yourself a favor and follow the hyperlink (just click on her name, why don't ya?) to her incredible website and revolution. You will thank me later, I promise you. 

Anyway, this morning I trolled her site to see what she's up to and I found a GREAT video with her tips for staying healthy while traveling.  Watch it here. In it, she talks about the healthy snack mix she takes with her on road and plane trips, essential oils, and other great tips to keep you healthy and strong when you're away from home.

I haven't been posting here as frequently as I'd like, which doesn't mean I'm not traveling, but many of my trips lately have been retreads - to San Diego and to Ojai twice and back to the magical land of Texas. However, we have a big family trip coming up in June (Barcelona and Rome), so I am gearing up with travel tips and packing how-to's. One of my very good friends recently took a whirlwind (and when I say that, I mean 3 countries, 4 cities and lots of museums and sights in a week!) spring break trek with her family and I'm dying to ask for her advice, which I'll post here.

In the meantime, what are your plans? Let me know where you're going this summer and what travel tips have worked for you!

Just Another Day in Cortona

Today is our last one in Cortona.  Tomorrow, we'll hop a bus, then a train to Rome.  Although we had tentative plans for our last days in Cortona, what we've found is that we really just want to hang out.  Sleep.  Eat. Read. Write. Walk down to the little store and buy olive oil.  Get a few onions for tonight's frittata. Drink some coffee. Enjoy the way the sun glows on the back balcony before it begins to set.  Bundle up in a hat, scarf, gloves and sweater just to sit on said balcony with mugs of tea, discussing everything and nothing.


I have found that most travel guides will help you find every "hidden gem," monument, landmark, trattoria, gift shop, etc. And I love that stuff as much as the next traveler.  But you know what I've loved most of all during this trip?  Washing our dinner dishes in the carrera marble sink, plunging my hands into the soapy water and scrubbing the pots, rinsing our caffe cups. Trust me, I love staying in hotels and not worrying about cleaning up after myself, but I have truly enjoyed the feeling of normal life that doing dishes and hanging laundry can provide.  


Behind Casa San Marco, there is a giardino d'infanza - day care.  Today, as I stood on the back balcony admiring the expansive view, I watched the mommies and nonnas drop their bambini off, shuttling the precious little darlings -- each and every child clad in puffy coats, puffy boots and knit hats with big bobbing balls on the top -- along the cobblestone alleyway.  I saw an older woman in sensible shoes and a scarf tied around her head as she hung the laundry out to dry in the cold breeze. I heard the downstairs neighbors greeting the construction workers down the lane. Normal lives. This is not just the town where tourists flock to absorb some sense of magical realism per the autobiographical accounts of an American ex-pat.  It is a town where generations of families have lived and worked and had babies and died for centuries.


And now, in a very small sense, I am a part of it, too.  As we've run our remaining errands around town -- shipping home heavy items and unnecessary clothing to lighten our suitcases before going to Rome, buying last-minute souvenirs, purchasing vegetables for our last meal at Casa San Marco -- each shopkeeper has asked, "When will you be back? Prossimo anno?"


Perhaps. I would like to think that once a place gets into your blood, you somehow seep into its soil, too. I don't need to live here full-time, but when I'm here, I need to live fully.

Piazza Della Signoria

Piazza della Signoria from Erin Shachory on Vimeo.

Moonstruck

Dead center, right above the glowing ring of street lamps is the moon.
Here, it looks like a tiny speck, but in real life, it was so huge, it stopped me in my tracks.

My mom and I had huge crushes on Nicolas Cage in the late 80s, spurred by his turn as a hang-dog sexy Italian baker in Moonstruck.  I've thought of that movie several times since I've been in Italy because the moonglow has been so bright and intoxicating that it consistently rouses me at 3 am, when the moon hits my eye like a big pizza pie of astral formaggio.


The first night we were in Florence, I begged Christine to go to my favorite trattoria.  The thing is, I never remember the name correctly and I never remember the exact location.  It's more like threading my way through the streets and busy pedestrians, licking my finger and holding it up, seeing which way the wind blows me.  The odd thing is that I've found this particular place in the same fashion every single time I've been in Florence.  So, in that way, I felt fairly confident that eventually we'd find it.


Armed with a map and a vague idea of the location of the Duomo, Christine and I set out.  "It's called the Wolf and the Cat, I think," I said.  "I think it's this way."  At each corner, I scratched my head and pointed.  "Or that way."


"Well, we can see if we find it and if not, I'm sure there are other places," Christine said patiently.  And there are other places, but I was determined to find this one.


"I think it's near the Bargello?" I said, without much conviction.


Somewhere along the Proconsolo, I stopped and shrugged.  "Maybe we'll just go one more block," I said, "and then I'm cool with just stopping anywhere."


"You sure?" Christine asked.  I nodded.  "Okay then," she said, "wanna turn down that next block?"


I looked left down the small alley next to us and said, "Hey, look at the moon!"  It was like a giant orange harvest moon, and it beckoned me toward it.  "Let's just go this way 'coz the moon is so pretty," I said, "then we'll turn at the next corner."


And wouldn't you know Il Gatto & La Volpe was right there, waiting for us. 


Thank you, Cosmo's moon.  La bella luna...

Icche c’è c’è

Icche c’è c’è means "whatever there is, there is."  I love it because it implies the changeable nature of life and how we just sort of need to go with it, no matter what happens.

Icche c’è c’è took Christine and I to Florence a day earlier than we'd planned.  When we hiked down to the bus stop at Piazza Garibaldi on Saturday around lunchtime, on our way to buy a few veggies before pranza, we'd planned to simply check the bus schedule and pick out the time we needed to meet the bus on Sunday morning to get to the train station in Camucia, then we'd buy our tickets at the local tabaccheria for the train to Florence the next day (Sunday, for the flea market). But Sunday in a Catholic country means family, prayer, resting... and no buses to and from Cortona.    

"Wanna go today?" I asked.  She shrugged.

Perchè no?

And so, a few hours later, we raced toward my favorite city as the sun set over the Tuscan countryside, no idea if we could get a room at the hotel we'd booked for Sunday night and really no plan other than to trawl the flea market at Fortezza the next day.  Freedom.  Liberty.  Whatever would be, would be.

I'll post a quick video about our first night's accommodations - that seemed to be the only hiccup in an otherwise flawless weekend that wouldn't have gone off in quite the same way if we'd planned it. And isn't that what travel is all about?

Isn't that what life is all about?  Whatever there is, there is...

Why I'll Never Hook Up With An Italian Guy, Part 2

At the San Lorenzo street market, adjacent to the Medici Chapel, I was admiring the stalls of scarves and leather goods, Italian tchotchkes and hats as we took a shortcut to the Duomo.  I had just put my camera back in my coat pocket and as I passed one young, scruffy ragazzo, he smiled sheepishly and uttered, "Ciao, bella."  


I remember when I was a kid living in Naples that many southern Italians would forego the "buon" part of buongiorno (which means "good morning" or "good day"; on a side note, after lunch or pranza, you switch to buona sera, or "good evening," even though it's only about 2 pm...).  Another thing I like to do is stretch out any "r" sound I have, rolling the "r"s and then just sort of hanging out on that syllable like I own it. And because Naples has such a mafioso rep, this sort of utterance is like the equivalent of wearing a full-on gold grill over my front teeth.  Aw yeah. So I got all street on this dude and showed off my street cred, Napolitan style. 


" 'giorrrrrrrno," I said, not pausing as we passed his stall.


"You dropped something!" he called.


Whiplash-like, I turned to look on the ground, which was clear.  The guy smiled back.  "My heart," he said in English, nodding.


"Oldest trick in the book," Christine said, shaking her head at me.


Well-played, signore.

Gastronomica

So, this may be TMI (* Mom, if you're reading this, that means "too much information" *), but most of the time when I travel, my stomach is upset. For example, even at my yoga retreat, an hour away from home, I find that my stomach gets nervous and I have a tough time calming it down. I planned ahead for this, buying medicine that can either speed up or stop any intestinal difficulties should they arise.  Nothing ruins a trip like doubling over in pain before you're even through a museum line.


But there's something so different about this trip to Italy.  I have been telling friends that it's a purpose-free journey; meaning, I've been to many of these tourist spots and museums and cities before, so I don't have any "must-see" items on my list, just a vague "well, if we get there, that'd be pretty cool..." feeling.  No expectations.  Just hoping to soak up some of the culture.  Kinda low-maintenance. 


Five years ago, Christine and I met here, in this house when we attended an art workshop, and so there's an easy familiarity in "living" here together.  We both have some food allergies and are very sensitive to certain foods, so having our own kitchen is a great relief.  Since we only have to feed ourselves - I don't have to forage for kid-friendly options or abide by anything but my own hunger patterns and caffeine requirements - it's super easy.  Scramble some eggs.  Cut an apple and some parmesan.  Peel a blood orange. Mix some ricotta, cashews and ground flaxseed into frutti di basco yogurt. Saute some gorgeous veggies -- mini zucchini, arugula, heirloom tomatoes, cipollini onions, baby carciofi (artichokes) -- in some fresh olive oil from the bottle on the marble counter.  


Yesterday, we went to the tiny family-owned trattoria in Cortona where a grandma cooks in ancient pots in a home-style kitchen and ate steaming bowls of pasta.  I never eat pasta at home, but this (photo at the top of this post) was a bowl of egg tagliatelle, freshly made and topped with a ragu that, yes, your Italian nonna would make. As we ate, one of the owners' daughters arrived with a stroller and her 4-month-old baby boy Andrea, a couple of Cortonese businessmen arrived for lunch and then an expat redhead with her auburn-haired son, everyone making a fuss over the baby with the big eyes and chewable cheeks. The last time I was here, I had to squeeze through the tiny kitchen, navigating my way past the two grandbabies in high chairs eating their lunches, to get to the bathroom.  It seemed like a good sign to me: there's no way a nonna would feed her grandkids anything less than the freshest, most delicious ingredients.  Not being an Italian by birth, this was the next best thing to having a traditional family meal in my Italian grandma's kitchen.


And I feel good.  So relaxed.  My body is happy and well-fed.  Abbondanza indeed!

Antici-----pation!

Oh, the nail-biting suspense of a trip that is only hours away.  I'm eating breakfast, then will board a shuttle, then go through security, then find my gate, then get on a plane and hope to sleep or watch a few movies... just trying to contain my EXCITEMENT about going to Italy again.

Sure, I've been making light of this trip, which literally knocked on my door and invited itself in.  

"You can stay in Cortona in a friend's villa," Opportunity said, settling onto my couch and sitting back, gazing carelessly at its nails.  "I'll bet you've got airline miles you could use..." and here Opportunity stopped and looked up at me, smiling sheepishly, "...an upshot of your (ahem!) advanced age."

I was about to feel insulted and show Opportunity the finger, then the door, when it presented the prize: two weeks in Italy.  My favorite city (Florence) and the one I've been wanting to see again (Rome).  It's been five years since my last Italian journey and every time I return I feel like I'm home.  I love Italy and I've been saying that I want to go for my 40th birthday for years... not realizing the power that an idea has once you've set it free, that sometimes these magical words can search for a way to make dreams real while you're going about the business of the "real world."

Seeing my shock and the wheels turning above my head like a halo, Opportunity snorted.  "Not so concerned about being 39 anymore, eh?"

"I suppose I could work it out... No, no, I can't..." I stammered.  "The kids, Raf... Who'll walk the dog?" 

Opportunity shrugged, waited.

"...My cat's a nightmare, the laundry piles up, Emme's got so many 5th grade activities... It'll be February for chrissakes, freezing and rainy..."

"You done?" Opportunity asked.

I nodded.  

"The offer stands," it said, suddenly standing up, putting its coat and hat back on.  Winking, it said, "Consider it."

But by the time Opportunity reached the handle of my front door, I'd already shouted, "I'll take it!"

And here we go... Two hours til flight time...

The Summer Me

I love to travel and I love Italy. Though we are not planning to go back to Italy until next summer -- for my whiz-bang 40th birthday -- I saw this article in Conde Nast Traveler about "Beaches in Italy" and my excitement is brewing.

This summer, we're taking the girls to Spain and France, no slouches when it comes to the beach-loving Mediterranean lifestyle. We'll be going from the Atlantic side to the Med side and then up to Paris - it has been planned for months and not even our crazy schedule with moving has dampened our enthusiasm. If anything, it's been good, helping to keep us occupied with "reality," so that maybe we can simply relax and enjoy our time in Europe -- we may even forgo all cultural activities (museums, must-see sites) so that we can merely hang on the beach and eat loads of ice cream and practice the art of doing nothing. It's all so good.

But back to the Summer Me. In addition to getting all my guide books and maps, I have been cutting out images of what I want to look like, seem like in my summer glory. Inspiration for the Summer Me. I'm seeing big hats, big sunglasses, tanned skin, scarves, cork wedge heels. In essence, Sophia Loren on the Italian Riviera.

So what if we're not going to Italy this summer? I may have to unleash my inner Sophia on the other parts of Europe...