Gatti (cats)

“One cat just leads to another”

- Ernest Hemingway

Within hours of settling into our new little house, the cats arrived. Some gray, some black, some tiger-striped, but all of them mangy and feral. They were so skinny they almost didn’t look like cats, but rather some other wilder, more dangerous thing. Certainly not housecats. Jenna was excited to have animals around, but even she was a little put off by their wildness and open sores.
One cat, though, caught our attention. Black and white, skinny like the others, but smaller, with a low swinging belly that could only mean one thing: either lack of exercise (which seemed unlikely, given the circumstances) or teen pregnancy. This cat could not have been more than 6 months old, just a kitten herself, but apparently this sort of thing goes on in Italy.
Despite our reluctance, Jenna finally talked us into feeding it, playing on our sympathy with a lengthy justification about “healthy pregnancy”. At first the cat hung back, cautiously watching. She seemed skeptical about the bowl of milk in front of her (Jeff, not a fan of milk, said “I don’t blame her”) but she lapped it up anyway and clearly wanted more. She preferred the next course of cold ham and prosciutto, tearing at the meat with her sharp teeth and gulping down bites like the wild animal she was. Then she darted away, but we could see her from a distance, using a delicate paw to clean her face in rapturous joy.
The next day, she succumbed to Jenna’s relentless, little-girl cries of “Here kitty” and came close enough so Jenna could touch her, just for a second. Then, Jeff and I both said at the same time, “Now go wash your hands”.
Despite our initial disgust, we reluctantly began to take a liking to the cat and looked forward to her daily visits. I know, I know, feeding wild animals is not a good thing, but it was impossible not to. She was pregnant and VERY hungry. Jenna fussed over her like a little mother herself, promptly naming her “Lulu” and asking constantly when I thought she was going to have her kittens. Lulu was so small, it was hard to guess. She visited us a few times each day, gradually coming closer, and not darting off so fast, but rarely letting Jenna pet her. She began to meow loudly when she was hungry. It was difficult at first, feeding only Lulu and shooing off the other cats, but with the help of Jeff’s shoe the others finally backed off, glaring at Lulu in jealous rage. Languishing on a healthy diet of leftover fish, chicken and beef, Lulu’s fur started to shine, her eyes cleared up, and her belly swung even lower to the ground. She started hanging around all afternoon, content to sprawl out on the shaded patio and nap for hours. I remembered the long tired afternoons of my own pregnancy and smiled. I figured her time may be close.
Then, two days ago, while Jeff was at the beach and Jenna was sleeping in the house, I was outside typing on the porch when I heard a strange noise, a cross between a squeaky hinge and a bird. I ignored it at first, but heard it again a few minutes later and thought it might be the sound of a kitten, so I went to investigate. I poked around nearby shrubs and looked under the woodpile, thinking of all the likely hidden places as I followed the sound. I finally traced it over to the “lean-to”, an open stone structure with slanted roof, that’s butted up against the hillside nearby. I followed the roofline and finally found a tiny glimpse of black fur, hidden in the gutter space which was covered by the overhanging terra cotta roof. I heard more squeaks and assumed it was a kitten, but I couldn’t tell if it was alone or with other kittens, abandoned or with the mother. Maybe Lulu was injured or dead, so I slowly lifted up one of the loose terra cotta tiles to take a peek. Immediately, I was met with the snarling, hissing face of an angry cat. “Back off!” her growl insinuated. I quickly dropped the roof tile back into place and slowly backed away, nodding and calmly assuring her, “Listen, sister, I know EXACTLY what you’re going through…” Clearly our little Lulu was birthing and needed to focus. She wanted nothing to do with distractions.
When Jenna woke up I told her the good news and she immediately wanted to go see. We managed to find a side view, where we could see Lulu, haggard and panting, squished in the narrow, littered space of the gutter. I had a quick, unreasonable urge to whisk Lulu off to a nice, clean, soft cat bed in a safe, calm room to finish all this birthing business. But I knew we had to let things be. The life of a wild cat is neither comfortable nor clean. It’s harsh and dark and dirty.
Jenna was able to see one tiny, squirming kitten in the darkness (which she thought looked more like a wet little pig), but we also saw, sadly, one tiny, lifeless kitten right next to Lulu’s face. Lulu again snarled and hissed at us, but with kinder, softer eyes this time, so we backed away respectfully. Our mild-mannered Lulu had turned into a fiercely protective little mama.
Throughout the day, we continued to hear the squeaks and tiny “mir, mer”s of kittens. We left a plate of food and some water close by, but she didn’t budge from her dark, cramped quarters. Ants covered the food in minutes. In the evening, Jeff was brave enough to throw some bits of meat right next to Lulu, and she hissed and chewed, hissed and chewed. He then happily reported back to us that he saw 3 squirming little kittens, each looking exactly like their mama. The lifeless little one must’ve pulled through. In the morning, we checked in on her. She looked exhausted and hungry, but the kittens were squeaking and seemed healthy enough.
That evening Lulu surprised us by sauntering over to the patio while we were eating dinner. “Man, what a day I’ve had” she seemed to say. Back to her old self, even rubbing against Jenna affectionately, she seemed to want not only food but comfort. We quickly fixed her a plate of food, which she wolfed down with alarming speed, and meowed impatiently for more. We fed her again. Then we all heard the kittens squeaking, and Lulu scampered off with a purpose in her step.

NEXT UP: More island adventures…







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Part III - Isola di San Pietro - Carloforte

“I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself”

- Maya Angelou


We drank in the town of Carloforte like a cold beer on a hot day. It was amazingly beautiful and we knew we had to stay. Giddy with excitement, we skipped over to the tourist Information office and began our inquiry with a sentence involving, “Parla Inglese?”
“No,” the woman said, shaking her head, “Italiano”. We decided to take this as a good sign, and pressed on with, “We would like to rent a house or apartment in this city for one week or two week or many month. Yes? Where to go for this please?” She marked a spot on our map a few blocks away, and we walked along the main cobbled thoroughfare, Via Settembre, past lovely 2- and 3-story “mixed-use” pastel-colored buildings with shops on the ground floor and housing with shutters and wrought iron balconies above. We found the rental agency, which was also a combination phone store, lottery center and a few other services I didn’t understand. We were greeted by the proprietress, a cheerful, big boned woman with a great smile. She listened to us very patiently, as we sputtered and butchered one Italian sentence after another, using lots of hand gestures and pantomime, and frequently consulting our Italian dictionary. We were grateful for her calm demeanor and simple questions. As long as she spoke to us in very slow basic sentences, as one would to an imbecile, we managed to comprehend a fair amount of what she said. She then sat down and pecked at her computer for a few minutes, made some phone calls in typical rapid-fire Italian, and then finally managed to explain to us that only one place was available now. She pointed to a spot on the map, several kilometers from town. We were mildly disappointed, since we’d hoped to find an apartment in the centro, but it didn’t seem like we had much choice. She showed us some pictures of the rental on her computer (which unfortunately enhanced our disappointment) but she assured us it was “molto tranquillo” (very tranquil). We drove out to the place, expecting the worst, but were surprised when we drove up to a 2-story stand-alone house, much like a Mexican hacienda, with white washed walls, green shutters, terra cotta roof, and climbing, riotously pink bouganvilla.. If we stood on tiptoe, we could see a sliver of ocean from the wide, white-tiled drive-around patio in front. As we toured the large, fairly modern 4-bedroom house, we were happy to see there were also views of the ocean from an upstairs bedroom and the bathroom. We weren’t sure how we felt about being a car ride away from the “paese” (village of Carloforte), but we were relieved to finally have a kitchen and a place to unpack our suitcases. We paid for the week, stocked the house with food, and happily settled in. It wasn’t our dream house, as it had that annoying quality of being spacious yet feeling cramped, but over the next few days we came to appreciate the quiet freedom and privacy of living in a stand-alone house just outside the village. We could walk outside naked if we wanted to (and we did).
We made good use of the enormous patio with nightly games of World Cup-inspired soccer, and Jeff even took the opportunity to teach Jenna how to steer the car. I cut fresh herbs from the tiny garden to enhance our delicious dinners—hardy thyme, mint, fennel and rosemary. We even picked a few lemons from the lemon tree, though it may have “technically” been planted in the neighbor’s yard..
There was an outdoor kitchen/pizza oven where Jeff learned how to barbeque the Italian way: on a wobbly metal grate, under which he built a fire of brickettes and wood.
Speaking of lighting fires, one evening we lit some candles on the dining room table at dinnertime. We left them burning while we went out to the kitchen to clean up, and when we returned a few minutes later, the dining room table had somehow caught fire! We screamed and instantly doused it with water, but the fire had already burned a hole through the tablecloth, and left a black circle on the wood table. Mortified, embarrassed, having no way to fix it and no way to reach the owner, we later wrote a note and left a fair amount of money. I’d misplaced our Italian dictionary, so we kept the note pretty simple. It said: “Thank you for the house. We are sorry, VERY sorry with the table. We have a problem with hot. We would like to pay for this problem. Here is money. Telephone us for more money. Here is our phone numbers.”
Anyway, when we weren’t at the house, starting fires, walking around naked, teaching Jenna to drive or stealing lemons we explored the town of Carloforte and the island of Isola di San Pietro.. We’d travelled through so many new towns in the previous week, that for the first few days we kept asking each other, “What is the name of this place, again?”
On the east side of the island is the town of Carloforte, the only town on the island. On the south side are sandy beaches, rocky coves, and calm tourquoise water. The north and west sides are more dramatic, with bigger sea swells and ragged cliffs. The entire island is mountainous, but the terrain changes dramatically, looking one minute like a Sauvie Island field of dry grass, Queen Anne’s Lace and wild fennel, to a rich green Central Oregon pine grove with surrounding black rocky cliffs, to a desolate Arizona cactus grove, to a Mexican hillside with whitewashed cottages and palm trees.
We discovered that the island “Isola de San Pietro” was named after Saint Peter who, legend has it, was marooned here during a storm on the way to Karalis (now Cagliari).
The island has an interesting history. The king of Sardinia donated Isola di San Pietro to the people of Tabarka who lived on a tiny island near Algeria. Since the Tabarkans were originally from Genoa, they brought their Ligurian customs, traditions and speech when they colonized Isola di San Pietro and founded Carloforte in 1738. For years, the island was highly sought after (fishing, agriculture, climate, beauty—the works) and in 1798 a group of hoodlums came and carted off 800 residents as slaves, hoping to take over the island. Luckily, the slave people were returned in 1803 few years later (due to some serious pressure from Napolean) but the townspeople were freaked out, and convinced the king to build a wall for their protection. A wall was then built on a ridge above the sea, surrounding the entire village. By 1876, though, everyone had relaxed and decided it might be nice to live a little closer to the ocean, so they tore down half the wall and extended the village right up to the seafront. Half the wall is still visable today.
The village is designed well, with narrow alleys and an abundance of thriving shops and restaurants. We soon found a bookstore, a theater, pescherias (fish shops), macellerias (meat shops), pollerias (poultry shops), fresh pasta shops, pasticcerias (pastries), a beauty shop, a wine shop and several clothing stores. Jenna was especially excited to find the candy store, pet shop, toy store, DVD rental store and an abundance of gelatorias.
Several piazzas are scattered here and there, but the most central, pedestrian-only piazza has 4 enormous Ficus trees in each corner, with circular benches built around them to offer shade and a place to sit and talk, which is important because Italians LOVE to talk. Except during siesta, the piazza is generally lively, with adults sitting and talking and children running around in packs, yelling, kicking soccer balls, laughing and darting into the candy store for more fuel
Days passed in a lazy haze…I’d wake up, look outside at the robins egg blue sky, gaze out my bedroom window at the Sardinian sea, drink coffee, make Swedish pancakes for Jenna, pack a lunch, go to the beach, swim, read, explore the village, take Jenna out for gelato, pick up groceries, make dinner, listen to Jenna beg for more gelato, hang out, go to bed.
Despite the fact that the island is rather small (just 11K wide and 15K. long) and doesn’t offer the amazing plunging and summiting bike rides that Jeff had grown to love in Liguria, we all soon began to fall hard for Carloforte and decided to stay. We checked back at the rental office to inquire about longer term rentals (since we could only stay in the house we were in for a week), but after days of checking she told us the entire town was booked up in the month of August. She showed us pictures of a few small, expensive, dreary apartments that were available for other months, but nothing that we even liked.
Then, one day on a bike ride just outside of town, Jeff found an “affitasi” (for rent) sign beside an ancient stone house. He scribbled down the information, and later that day took Jenna and I to see it. Through the closed, sliding gate we could only see the back of the house, but it looked promising, and might even have a “vista mare” (sea view). We weren’t even sure if it was a stand-alone house, or shared and we had no idea how much it cost, but Jeff finally convinced me to call the phone number. Let’s just say that conversing in Italian is hard enough in person, but talking on the phone is MUCH harder. Talking on the phone is immediate and literal. At least in person, I can use hand gestures and hold up my fingers in a gesture of, “Okay, wait, wait while I think of a word”. (Plus, Jeff says that even in English, my communication skills require elaborate hand gestures). I stood in the middle of the quiet road, looked at the house, and dialed the numbers. A woman answered and I blurted out something in Italian like “My name is Tracie. I am American. I only speak a little Italian. I’m sorry. I see the for-rent house here. I am here. I like the for-rent house. Is house okay to rent for me and for my husband and for my little girl child please?” Again, I was amazed by her patience, and after stumbling around for several minutes, by some miracle we were able to communicate enough basic words to arrange a meeting at the house the following day at 11. At least that’s what I thought we’d agreed to, but I honestly couldn’t be sure.
The next morning, we drove out to the house and met Rafaella, her husband Salvatore and their 8-year old daughter Sara. We immediately fell in love with the house, its cool tile floor, exposed wood beam ceiling and stone walls. It’s called a “barraca” which is one of the typical, original stone structures built on the island. It’s tiny (about 14x16), but has been recently renovated and has a tight, efficient feel like a well-designed cabin. On the main floor is a combination kitchen, dining room and living room, as well as bathroom with shower, bidet and washing machine. Then up an open staircase is a comfortably-sized loft bedroom with old armoire and small casement window.
But the most wonderful thing of all about the house is the “vista mare”. From its position, up high on a bluff above the village, we looked out across the bamboo slat-covered front patio, past the daisies, rosemary, and outdoor “kitchen” with barbeque, past the field of scrub grass, and just beyond the ancient pine and olive trees and could see a large slice of the vast Sardinian sea. We wanted this place bad.
We asked if the house was available until November, and they explained that it was, except for the entire month of August. Oh well, we wanted it anyway. The next day, we met again and managed to work out a very reasonable rental arrangement.
We moved in a few days later and now proudly have a place to call home. Except for the month of August. Which we’ll figure out later.

NEXT UP: Life on a tiny island off the coast of Sardinia

Part II - Sardinia

“A gem cannot be polished without friction, nor a man perfected without trials”

- Chinese Proverb

We arrived late in Santa Teresa di Gallura, a port city in northeastern Sardinia and booked a room at the first hotel we could find. From our tiny balcony, we had a view of the parking lot; but beyond that, we had a glimpse of the turquoise blue Sardinian sea. We strolled the “centro”, chocked full of touristy trinkets, t-shirt shops and gelaterias, then ate an over-priced dinner and went straight to bed. The next morning, surprisingly awake at 6am, I slipped on sandals and a dress, and went for a walk. Following a path to the castle (yes, castle) I took a detour down a side trail to the ocean. Down a steep stone staircase, past a cactus grove, then a dirt path and finally reaching the huge rocks next to the sea, I sat next to the softly breaking waves and watched the sun rising over the clear, aquamarine water.
I realized at that moment that I hadn’t spent a single minute alone next to the ocean in Italy. Sure, I’ve been alone without my husband and daughter, but never once, in Liguria, was I alone at the ocean—there were always other people around. Liguria, while lovely, doesn’t exactly have much ‘wild’ coastline and it’s virtually impossible to find any privacy. I could see already that Sardinia was going to be different, and I was very very happy. Maybe it’s the native Oregonian in me, but I like a little privacy with my nature.
The morning was sunny and bright, and we ate a quick breakfast, crammed all our suitcases and paraphernalia into our tiny car and hit the road, refreshed and ready to find our ideal town on the island of Sardinia. We drove slightly inland to Sassari, the only really large city in northern Sardinia, to buy some essentials we couldn’t find elsewhere:
1) a guide book on Sardinia in English (we were flying blind)
2) reading glasses, to replace my broken ones
3) bicycle lock
4) a very important red/white diagonally-striped sign that we’ve learned is legally required when hauling anything that extends off the back of a vehicle (i.e., the bike rack with Jeff’s bicycle). The sign must be affixed to the “extension”, presumably to alert other drivers that they can still tailgate, just a few inches back.
Sassari is a busy, noisy authentic working city with a serious, no-nonsense feel. Its central core is marvelously efficient, and we were able to find everything we needed in less than an hour and were back on the road again.
We drove to Alghero, an attractive, large town on the northwest coast of Sardinia, where we’d heard (from my niece Annie) we could rent affordable “villinis” at a camping area called La Mariposa. We were excited to have a destination. I’d been emailing La Mariposa for a week, trying to get a reservation and hadn’t heard back, which indicated that they were either full and didn’t have time for emails, or so vacant they didn’t bother checking emails. When we drove in, the place was packed—cars, bicycles, people milling about in bathing suits and flip flops. At the reservation office, we learned from the no-nonsense La Mariposa employee that they were booked solid until October. Not to be discouraged, we drove to the Alghero tourist Information office and asked about apartment rentals, but were surprised to discover that the prices were higher than we’d been paying in Liguria. So we sat down at an outdoor restaurant, to have some refreshments and hold a family meeting about what to do. We had a very productive meeting (decided to move on), but a terrible restaurant experience (surly server, delays, over-priced food, tiny portions, etc.) which prompted us to proclaim, probably unfairly, “Boy, Alghero is really expensive, and the people are rude!” Alghero does have an attractive “centro”, and a nice seafront, lined with outdoor restaurants (serving dinner entrees hovering around 30 Euro), and we could’ve probably had fun staying for a week or so, but without affordable housing, it was impossible.
So we continued our search, driving south along a small coastal road, high above the sea. We stopped in one small dreary town after another, inquiring about hotels, and were shocked to find them well over $100 Euro per night.
By the end of the day, we gave up and finally drove inland a few kilometers to Bosa, a midieval town with attractive pink-and-golden buildings flanking the Fiume Temo (river Temo). The weather had turned humid and the air felt thick and heavy, and we were all sticky, cranky and tired of travelling.
In desperation, we finally found an over-priced, stuffy apartment to rent for the night, and lugged our enormous suitcases up three floors, banging and puffing our way up the narrow staircase. On the positive side, there was a balcony and a kitchen so we were able to save money on restaurant food, but the refrigerator didn’t work! That evening there was a huge thunder/lightening storm, which “broke the before weather” (Jenna’s words) and also managed to break the tension and lighten up our mood.
With clear heads and full bellies, we sadly concluded that our experience of Sardenia so far was not so good. We knew that “high season” was upon us, but we couldn’t figure out why all these mediocre coastal towns with mediocre hotels were so expensive. Could Sardinia actually be more expensive than the Italian Riviera? Why? Was it the high cost of providing goods and services on an island? Was it just a matter of taking advantage of a captive audience? We decided to give it one more try the next day. If things didn’t get cheaper (and, frankly, prettier), we were heading for Sicily.
The next day, we continued our drive southward, expecting to find all those impossibly picturesque towns, beautiful aquamarine coves and white sandy beaches that I was reading about. However, by mid-morning, it began to rain. Just a sprinkling at first, but then the sky turned darker and the rain slowly got heavier and heavier.
Through the driving rain, we slogged along the isolated, slightly inland main southern road. Through the windshield wipers, I could see that the landscape was boring and flat, with miles of chest-high green shrubs and squat pine trees extending out in either direction. We saw long side roads which went for miles out to one beach or another, but the map showed no towns at the end of these roads, so we drove on.
Once we reached the midpoint of Sardinia, our guide book said we were entering the Costa Verde, supposedly the area with the “most stunningly beautiful beaches” Okay, the landscape did indeed begin to improve a little, with mountains that provided a bit of contour, and the road did extend out to the coast for a few miles so we could finally see the ocean, but at this point the rain began to pelt the car with such force that we couldn’t even hear each other talk, the windshield wipers were flapping madly, and the dark sky turned the ocean an angry steely gray with whitecaps. Think Oregon Coast on a miserably cold, windy, rainy day.
What we were discovering about the landscape of Sardinia was that the so-called “beautiful beaches” seem to be miles away from any towns. And the towns were not lovely in any way. I began to read the description (from my new Lonely Planet Guide to Sardinia) as we approached each new town—these are actual quotes:
“a weird place”
“a listless grid plan”
“a rather soulless little town”
“a workaday agricultural center”
“not an especially sightly place”
“no more than a hiccup of a stop”
“little more than a seafront hotel and a car park”
‘you probably won’t want to hang around too long”
“there’s not a huge amount to see”
“the embodiment of a backwater”
‘sprawling, fairly drab former mining town”

Actually, the word “drab” was a common town feature in this area of Sardenia.
By the end of the day, we’d given up trying to find the perfect town, and just wanted to find a nice, dry hotel room out of the rain, so we drove on to what we thought would be our final town for the day: Portoscuro, described as “an attractive fishing port capped by a Spanish-era tower and surrounded by a tiny warren of agreeable lanes”. I think a better name might be “Porto-excuse-the industrial-sprawl-o”, due to the enormous chimney stacks of the vast thermoelectric industrial complex nearby.
At this point, we officially hit bottom. Inwardly, I was proclaiming, “Boy, Sardinia is stupid! The towns are crappy! And this weather sucks!”
We could not stay in this depressing town, even though it was 6 pm, raining, and we had nowhere to go. Surprisingly, though, we were not upset or bickering. I guess there comes a point when a situation gets so ridiculous that it’s not serious or bad anymore—it’s a fiasco. And if you recognize the absurdity, it just becomes funny and so much lighter. Hitting bottom also marks the beginning of something new…
I then read about 2 nearby islands that sounded intriguing. One town, Carloforte, on Isola di san Pietro, was described as “cheerful”. “Cheerful” sounded good after “drab”, and we reasoned that it really couldn’t be any WORSE than where we were, so we drove to the ferry dock (another ferry!) and were able to board minutes later. About halfway through the 30 minute crossing, the rain stopped and it began to clear up. We went outside, to the top deck, to see this so-called “cheerful” town.
Carloforte was a sight to behold, with a graceful marina, a stately row of palm trees and tall pastel colored buildings lining the seafront, in shades of pale pink, mint green, soft yellow, muted coral and light blue. A yellow church bell tower poked its head out from the centro. Outdoor cafes spilled onto cobbled piazzas. Graceful rolling hills provided a soft backdrop for the lovely arc of the town. Jenna looked up at me and said, "Mama, is this the place?"

NEXT UP: Isola di San Pietro: Carloforte

On the Road Again

"I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move"

-Robert Louis Stevenson

On the road again: Part I-Corsica – Part II-Sardinia – Part III-Isola di San Pietro….

Part I-Corsica

We’ve enjoyed our time on the Ligurian coast of Italy, but unfortunately we haven’t found the town we think we’re searching for. We’ve found pretty towns too expensive for us and affordable towns too uninspiring for us. And we’ve found some towns (even in Italy) that are just plain stupid. The raw adventure of exploring new places drives us, but the drone of travel can be tiring and expensive. We long for a kitchen to cook in, a market town to shop in and a thriving local culture. Plus, we’re nesters, this family, and we all want the chance to settle into a town and put down some temporary (5 month) roots and really LIVE in Italy rather than sightsee. Sightseeing feels like we’re skipping along the surface of things, never really delving deep enough. Living, on the other hand, takes time and commitment, it means adapting to our environment, developing relationships, making friends, finding work, giving back, learning and really melting into the experience.
With that in mind, our wish list for the perfect town:
1) a town connected to the sea
2) a thriving, affordable town
3) a town of medium size (5,000 pop) a not-too-fast, not-too-slow kind of place; big enough to keep us interested and small enough to run into people we know
4) a town that is well-maintained and respects its heritage
5) a town with an evident soul
6) a town where the people proudly speak Italian and expect the same from us

Of course there are other things we’d like, such as perfect weather, a vibrant piazza, nice friendly neighbors with kids Jenna’s age, delicious gelato, a bookstore, an attractive seafront, a weekly open market, and of course proximity to good cycling roads--but we know we may not get everything we want.
So the plan is to head south, away from Liguria and on to Corsica, Sardinia, and possibly even Sicily. If we STILL don’t find a town to nest in, we’ll explore the “heel”,”arch” and “toe” of mainland southern Italy and come back up the western coastline.
We returned our rental car and picked up our new (unfortunately smaller) leased car, a Renault Clio ‘Campus’. En route to Savona to catch a ferry the following day, we stopped in Imperia to check our P.O. Box, but discovered the Posta was closed. Since we were expecting packages, this was disappointing since we probably won’t be coming back to Imperia any time soon.
As usual, once we reached Savona we were tired and hungry after a day of driving, hauling, packing and re-packing our increasingly irritating luggage. We found a hotel, and then walked along the wide, pedestrian-only Via Roma, looking for a ristorante. Finding nothing but shops and an occasional bar, we then strolled along the seafront boardwalk, lined with snack shacks and private chair/umbrella-for-rent beaches. Still no ristorante. We finally found what we were looking for, packed with noisy locals, about a half-block from our hotel. Jenna ate an entire order of freshly made gnocchi with pesto while Jeff and I savored “risotto del frutta de mare” (risotto with fruit of the sea--seafood) which was the most delicious meal we’ve had so far in Italy, and the least expensive.
Early the next morning we took a long, 6-hour ferry to Corsica on the unexpectedly nice “Corsica-Sardinia Ferries”. More like a cruise ship than a ferry, the boat had cabins for overnight trips, a saltwater pool, lounge/bar with dance floor, cozy upholstered couches, bookstore/gift shop, kids play area with bouncy house, video game room and a restaurant/dining area with tables and actual fresh food. Jenna had fun bouncing, playing video games, reading and swimming in the pool with her Barbies, Jeff read and dozed on and off, and I mostly concentrated on not getting seasick by staring at the horizon. Jenna and I were lucky enough to see a huge black whale breeching and spouting along the side of the boat, while Jeff was, of course, napping. Planes, trains, automobiles, ferry boats--my husband has the amazing ability to fall asleep at the drop of a hat, which I admire and envy a little.
We arrived in Bastia, an uninteresting port town on the northeastern tip of Corsica. We were excited to explore this brand new island, however, the near-perfect weather we’d enjoyed in Liguria had suddenly turned cool, cloudy and rainy. Honestly, this was the worst weather of our trip so far—which I hesitate to mention, considering the weather in Portland, OR for the last month. Our plan was to drive south, along the eastern border of Corsica. If we found an interesting town, we’d stop, but otherwise we’d drive straight through to the southern ferry port. Here’s my impression of Corsica that day: green, remote, low scratchy shrubs, mostly inaccessible coastline, and an occasional glimpse of a tiny hilltown nested high amongst the dark green blanket of trees. Where was all the Corsican mint? The beautiful beaches? The sun? I did see lots of “camping” signs. “Camping”, we’ve discovered, is a term meant to describe not only a tent/trailer area, but often a place with “bungalows, “villinis” (small, stand-alone villas) and a restaurant/grocery all on site. We were keeping our options open, but as long as it kept raining, we kept driving.
When you’re travelling quickly through an area, not spending a lot of time there, it’s hard to know if your current experience (whether it be rain, wind, traffic, noise, disgruntled people, etc.) is common or if it’s UNUSUAL. You almost can’t help but judge a place based on a short personal experience. For instance, when we were in Antibes, France last week, it was incredibly windy--wind that took Jeff’s hat off his head and sent us laughing and running around for 5 minutes trying to catch it; wind that whipped my hair blindingly across my face and lifted my skirt, a la Marilyn Monroe, and displayed my panties—causing me to walk around clutching a wad of my skirt in one hand and a hunk of my hair in the other. If we hadn’t already been to Antibes before, we might come away proclaiming, “Boy, Antibes is WINDY!”.
So here we are in Corsica, in the cold drizzly rain, and of course we proclaim, “Boy, Corsica has terrible weather!” So we kept driving. The weather finally cleared as we were approaching the surprisingly beautiful southern port town of Bonifacio. Bonifacio is like a tiny Portofino, with a lovely arched bayfront of tall pastel-colored buildings. We considered staying, but deciding to leave our decision up to fate: we would drive first to the ferry terminal and if a ferry was still leaving for Sardinia, we’d take it; if not, we’d stay the night. Fate decided, and we boarded another ferry that left just minutes later, for a quick crossing from the southern tip of Corsica to Santa Teresa di Gallura, a touristy little port town on the northeastern tip of Sardinia, ready for our next island adventure.

NEXT UP: Part II – Sardinia

Antibes, France

“In France, cooking is a serious art form and a national sport.”

-Julia Child

Crossing the border from Italy to France, it’s hard to see any difference between the two countries, since their natural and man-made beauty rival each other. It’s what the people do within that beauty that distinguishes them: the French seem to spend more effort maintaining things like buildings (fewer crumbles, less cracked paint) and public areas (cleaner streets, nicer public gardens). French culture is refined and tight. France feels a little more attractive and romantic, but in a distant way, like a lover who won’t commit.
Italy’s culture, on the other hand, feels looser, more Bohemian, more approachable. Italy lets things go. The phrase “Dolce fare niente” (the sweetness of doing nothing) says a lot about Italy.
Antibes, France, is a vibrant, attractive town, located on a peninsula between Nice and Cannes on the French Riviera. We spent 3 days visiting museums, eating crepes and good French bread, drinking Provencal rose and taking in all that refined French culture.
Our hotel, on a corner of the main piazza, was tiny and loud. The World Cup soccer matches had just started, and the townfolk were exuberant. Dozens of restaurants carted out big screen TVs into the street, for all to watch. Soccer is a BIG DEAL around here.
The meandering alleyways of Antibes are chocked full of stylish retail shops, over-priced beach paraphernalia, Provencal linens and specialty food items like gourmet olive oil and herb-roasted chicken. A huge covered space that spans several blocks is home to a twice-weekly open market that sells luscious fruits, bright fresh vegetables, rich creamy cheeses, hand made salamis, and fresh-caught fish. It made me ache for my own kitchen.
We visited the Matisse museum in nearby Nice (where Jenna was excited to recognize the famous blue “cutouts”), as well as the Picasso museum in Antibes, where Pablo actually lived and worked for a time (obviously before it became a museum). Picasso even painted one enormous and colorful piece directly onto a wall. Unfamiliar with famous works of original art, Jenna kept saying, “You mean this is the FIRST one?”
Jenna took to France like a duck to water. She learned the French words for gelato, fruit juice and thank you. And she even got a chic new haircut from a very French hair stylist.
One day, she and Jeff discovered, hidden down a tiny staircase, an underground “Absinthe bar” where a live jazz duo was playing. Absinthe, I’ve come to find out, is a distilled, highly alcoholic beverage whose medicinal use dates back to ancient Egypt. It’s an anise-flavored spirit derived from herbs, including the flowers and leaves of the herb Artemisia absinthium, commonly referred to as “grande wormwood”. It apparently has a reputation for being a mysterious, dangerous, mind-altering drink. The chemical “thujone”, present in small quantities, was singled out and blamed for its alleged harmful effects, so as a result, Absinthe was prohibited in the United States and most European countries around 1912. The prohibition of absinthe in France led to increased popularity of pastis--however pastis, though anise-flavored, does not contain wormwood. Also, a “faux” absinthe liquor, called Absente, made with southern wormwood (Artimesia abrotanum) instead of grande wormwood was sold legally in the U.S., but it wasn’t until 2007 (!) that the U.S. relaxed its absinthe ban and has now approved over 50 brands, although it is strictly regulated with regard to its chemical “thujone” content.
Since Jenna was anxious to hear live music and we were intrigued to try Absinthe, we walked in.
The bar is in a tiny dark stone cave with a vaulted arched ceiling. The atmosphere feels slightly clandestine (or maybe that was just me). On each of the 6 or so tiny tables is an Absinthe “vessel”: like a huge heavy wine glass, whose glass “bowl” sits atop a thick stem base. The bowl is filled with ice water, and around the outside of the bowl are 4 tiny brass spigots to siphon off the water. Also on the table is a small bowl of sugar cubes. Since we don’t know the difference between “white” or “green” absinthe, the server brings us one of each.. It arrives in heavy glass goblets, with only a few tablespoons of the precious liquid in each glass. The server places a slotted spoon beside each goblet. We understand that we are to put a sugar cube on the slotted spoon, hook the spoon onto the goblet, place the goblet under the brass spigot, and open the spigot just slightly to let the water drip ever so slowly onto the sugar cube until the sugar dissolves into the Absinthe. That’s when it’s ready to drink. We take tiny sips of the STRONG Absinthe that smells and tastes like a combination of licorice, fennel and fire. We listen to the musicians perform songs from Astrud Gilberto and the Beatles. We model different fancy hats which are strewn about for all to wear. Jenna basks in the music, the vibe, the love of her parents and the attention of the staff. We stroll back late to the hotel, over cobbled stone streets, under ornate French streetlights, and sleep very, very well.
The next day we drove along the French Riviera, passing one charming chateau after another. We’d been in the car for hours, hungry and hot, so we stopped in a small seaside town called Theoule (rhymes with fuel) for a swim. The sea in this secluded little cove was deep blue and calm and, surprisingly, the beach was nearly deserted. We set up chairs and umbrella and stripped down to our suits. A small floating dock about 30 meters out was whispering “swim to me, swim to me”, so I dove into the cool clear water and began to swim. About halfway, I felt a prickly pinch on my arm and instinctively yanked it out of the water, but I couldn’t see anything so I kept on swimming. That pinch got pricklier and pricklier with each stroke, and that’s when I knew: jellyfish sting. It’s like a brush with nettles, hot, stingy, sensitive. I quickly turned around and swam back to the beach to stop Jenna from wading in. That’s when we discovered all the tell-tale dead purple jellyfish on the beach. No wonder this beach was empty! Welts were forming on my arm in an interesting pattern, like a comb, with one red straight line and several red “fingers” extending out . I scurried to the pharmacy and, since I didn’t know the French word for “jellyfish”, I just held up my arm. The pharmacist gave me a knowing look and a quick nod, “Ah…oui, oui…jellyfish” (note here that “oui” is pronounced “way” and “jellyfish” is pronounced “jellyfish”). I bought the mysterious tube she placed on the counter, slathered it on and viola! (that’s French for “presto”) it worked like a miracle, taking away the sting and calming down the welts. Since that pretty much ended the swimming, we packed up and ate a delicious lunch at a beachfront restaurant called Marco Polo.

NEXT UP: Heading south, in search of the Perfect Town

Perinaldo

"No matter how sophisticated you may be, a large granite mountain cannot be denied--it speaks in silence to the very core of your being"

-Ansel Adams

Perinaldo sits high on a mountaintop and is surrounded on three sides by even higher mountains. Behind us (north) are the jagged peaks of the Ligurian Alps. To the east are the mountains that divide us from the next river valley, and to the west are the Maritime Alps and French border. These mountains on either side of Perinaldo angle sharply (northward) down the long river valley toward the sea, creating a “V” in which the blue Mediterranean sits. The house we've rented for 10 days, the lovely Castello Berlino, is stacked on 5 levels, with a big comfortable kitchen and a rooftop terrace that is so close to the church bell tower that we could hit it with an olive pit, if we wanted to. The church bells are...loud.
Jeff is in cycling nirvana, coming home sweaty and satisfied after climbing the narrow, ridiculously windy roads:  up one mountain and down the next, twisting into idyllic hilltowns, downing an espresso, and then plunging into valleys and back up again. Doing reconnaissance work for his upcoming cycling tour business is hard work, but he’s up for the challenge.
Jenna and I are getting exercise by simply living and walking in a hilltown. It’s an aerobic exercise just to go to the store, walking down ancient stone stairways, down slanted, narrow pedestrian streets (more like alleys) and then back up again, heart pounding, sweating.
We’ve spent the last week exploring our town, visting the lovely Hanbury Gardens, going to the beach in Bordighera, and figuring out how to lease a car (because it turns out we actually CAN'T buy a car unless we're Italian residents). Each time we drive our rental car back up to Perinaldo from the coast, along the winding river valley, we keep an eye out for our favorite sights: two donkeys and one enormous ostrich. Since we’re always driving fast (more on Italian driving at a later date) these sights are easy to miss.

NEXT UP: France for the weekend

Conversazione

"I speak two languages, Body and English”
- Mae West

Italians seem to have a different (foreign) word for almost everything.
Knowing only about 10% of the Italian language makes it tricky to understand what people are saying, especially since Italian conversation is so fast and dramatic. I understand words here and there, sometimes an entire phrase, but otherwise I’m clueless.
I find that if I say certain phrases REALLY fast like “Mi scusi signora, dove la fermata del’autobus piu vicina? (Excuse me madam, where is the nearest bus stop?) I can actually sound pretty good. “Good” meaning they don’t look at me with a scowl, oblivious to what I’m saying. The problem, of course, is that they answer in equally fast Italian. Hopefully, though, they will POINT, in which case I mutter “Ah…si si, grazie” and wander off in that general direction.
My natural tendency to eavesdrop is thwarted, so I’m forced to tune in to the more subtle cues of human interaction: tone of voice, facial expression, hand gestures, intonation, body language.
Jeff was at a café as a card game was in full swing. One of the players obviously won, throwing down his cards and causing an uproar at the table. Another player piped up and, in Jeff’s words, “went on a 5-minute diatribe". Jeff assumed the man was disputing the win, but how? He was vehement about his opinion, loud voice, gesticulating wildly, and the others listened with looks of sour doubt on their faces. Was he accusing the other man of cheating? What evidence was he using to defend his position?
Or maybe he was just telling everyone he needed to go home and have dinner with his wife…?
Jenna and I were on the bus the other day when some kids got on and immediately started shouting rapid, animated Italian at each other from one end of the bus to the other. Everyone was smiling and laughing. Afterward, Jenna said that she thought they were talking about school that day. I thought they were talking about summer vacation.
I think we sometimes imagine people are talking about the stuff that’s in our own heads.
I was recently at an internet café and observed a French couple sitting at a computer next to me, apparently dealing with some business situation (maybe a car rental? Again, I’m eavesdropping, but can’t understand the words). They spoke to each other in soft voices, asking each other questions, answering. They were young and attractive, and sat very close to each other, and they sometimes giggled, so I knew they were lovers. Their sweetness and kindness for each other was evident, even in this very mundane activity. They liked and cared about each other, and I could tell that they were problem-solving, working on things together, encouraging and helping each other in a respectful way.
A few minutes later a German couple sat at the computer on the other side of me, also engaged in business dealings together. Their voices were sharp and rough, and when one asked a question, it sounded accusatory, and the other would answer defensively. They kept scooting around their chairs, practically pushing each other to get a look at the computer screen. Their interaction conveyed frustration, anger, fatigue.
It got me to thinking about how clearly we communicate our thoughts and attitudes with each other just by the sound of our voice, the quickness of our response, the look on our face, how we hold our bodies.
Two Italian women about my age were sitting on a bench outside a cafe yesterday, heads bent toward each other, smiling, talking, laughing, nodding. Their voices got louder and then one said something to the other and they howled with laughter, holding their stomachs, doubled over. I could only imagine what they were talking about (probably men). That’s when I ached for my girlfriends back in Portland.

NEXT UP: Perinaldo