from France: droplets and photos

We’re on our last two days in Europe. It rains, we go out, it pauses, resumes, pauses.

We ignore it.

Let me do things differently in this post. Let me put up a few photos from the day and describe these for you. Nothing more, just a fistful of images:



The market in Nice is a six-day-a-week event. I have been curious how they handle winter. And now I see that they pretty much ignore it.










We leave the market for a few minutes. I'm curious -- how is the Mediterranean reacting to all this added rain?










That's a very agitated sea. We watch for a while, but the wind is strong. We retreat back to the market.





It's still raining, but there isn't much force to it. All this time, Ed walks without an umbrella. Why, I ask. That's girlie stuff, he tells me. Fact is, many men here are indeed into umbrella avoidance. Instead, they wear hats. The rain bounces off the rim and they (basically) stay dry.















So, what's an everpresent item at a Nice market? Especially on Sunday?




Roses! To take to you Sunday meal hosts.


Another detour away from the market: this time to Old Nice.





...with old habits, old foods, old pots.... etc.





So now I am getting hungry. In the marketplace we come across a place that totally draws me in by its display of meringues. I love large meringues! Large usually means that they retain some softness inside.





But I'm thinking I should have something healthy first. Ed? Ed's not hungry. Ed dozes while I eat.





We're done with the market. Ed's rested, I'm satiated. We walk back to the sea. It's loud!





Ed records the retreat of the waves on his cell phone. Imagine what it's like to hear water retreating over a beach of pebbles clashing against one another...





We walk along, mesmerized by the sounds, the many colors of the water. We're not the only ones.





Oh, you've spotted the trees? They are selling them in exactly the same spot where I used to go to the beach a couple of Julys ago.




The tree stands are much like the ones I remember from my childhood in Poland. We watch people pile on trees onto their small cars.

And now the rain has let up again. We walk through the Christmas market on the Square and Ed asks if maybe maybe we could do his very favorite food for dinner...





I cannot say no... The guy loves the bread and cheese here too much. And so we make our way back, pausing at a store so that I can take care of some holiday purchases...





...finally to retire to the quiet warmth of our attic room at the Grimaldi, where on a towel, we spread out dinner.

from Italy, then France: accidental tourists

We leave Levanto and the Cinque Terre in clouds.




As usual, we are lucky and the rain holds off for our hike to the station. Or maybe it is the tail end of a rainy period? Even as in Nice, where we are heading, they are predicting more rain? (You remember Nice – the place with 300 days of sunshine per year?)

The train ride is uneventful. I watch the coastal scenery, Ed reads. The compartment is full (yes, the regional trains still have compartments) and there is a pleasant silence as each of us does mental calculations about where and for what purpose the others are traveling.

A little girl leaves her compartment and sits next to the window. We pass the building where her father works. The mother calls him on the cell phone and they wave as we go by.





In Genoa, we have a half hour layover. And from there, we have a direct three hour trip to Nice.

Or so I thought.

At the Italian border there is commotion. What are they saying? Ed asks. I don’t know, I wasn’t listening. I should have been listening. Because now it’s clear we have to get off. There is a strike. The train will go no further.

And so here we are again, in Ventimiglia. There will be a Pullman! - someone shouts. I never heard that term used for a bus. But it seems that everyone expects a bus. Or, because of the great number of us, perhaps many buses. But as I get my turn at the ticket counter, the agent says no, no bus. In several hours we should get on a local to France.

Maybe you would have used the opportunity to walk around Ventimiglia once again. Me, I worried that someone would change his or her mind, or the departure time would change and we would have missed the one and only transport to Nice. So we sit and wait. Ed reads, I people watch. Fellow travelers, counting off the minutes until we can move again.

And a train does appear, a nice commuter train, and we pile on. Ten stops later we are in Nice.





The walk to the hotel is not too long. Fifteen minutes maybe. And we are almost there, just at the corner now. I’m about to say to Ed this is it! – when before us, a car turns into our street and there must have been a blind spot, because the driver doesn’t see that he is right in the path of a motorcycle. They crash.

The two riders are wearing helmets, which is a good thing because they fly off the crushed bike and in my memory of this, they both land on their heads, with a bounce. His leg is injured, she cries out and then grows quiet. A fantastically beautiful woman (yes, really) stops, sits down on the pavement and starts tending to the woman on the ground who appears to be in shock. She covers her, feels her pulse, takes her hand, calms her.

Being nearest to the accident, my first reaction was to shout out are you all right? In English no less.

We stay for a while, in part to see if all goes well, or well enough, and in part because I think like an American: there will be a law suit, I am a witness. But, Ed tells me that it’s pretty obvious what happened. And now, the ambulance comes, the beautiful woman talks to the paramedics (she must be a doctor herself). The accident victims seem lucid and not incapable of moving and so we leave.





So how many more accidents will we witness on this trip?

At the hotel, as a returning guest, I am treated to a splendid room. But truthfully, all rooms here, at the Grimaldi are lovely, especially if you ask for the top floor, with views over the city. In this season, the hotel offers a “come to Nice and shop for the holidays” special. For 270 Euros, we get three nights, breakfast daily, a bottle of champagne on arrival, and one three course dinner at an excellent restaurant.



fish cake, egg, toast, greens



seafood in broth




mandarine soufflé with chocolate Madeline



Have I made my case for traveling in early December? What, you think the weather isn’t perfect then? Okay, maybe where you live it is more perfect than what we have had on this trip. For me, so long as it stays above 50, I am happy.

We are in France. And for at least one reason, Ed’s face lights up. It is, for him, the country with the best bread in the world.

from Italy: in retreat

Maybe I could stand the Pacific northwest after all. I have gotten comfortable with gray skies and wet pavements.

We have only a few minutes in Florence. We walk to the river, curious how high it will be after a night of rain.





But, the heavens are acting kindly toward Florence. Even as the Tiber in Rome floods the city, the Arno shows signs of retreat.

As we walk to the train station, we see streets blocked off from traffic. Why? I could ask the police, but I’ve had bad luck with this in the last day or two. Florentine folk are too busy to listen to how terribly foreign I really am: I have been getting a lot of incomprehensible to me rapid fire Italian answers to questions. And so now I don’t want to ask.

But as we approach the station, the answer is there before us.





City shuts down for small, lefty student march (in support of the general strike that today is crippling much of Italy). The students are moving slowly, to music. What happened to anger? Doesn’t a demonstration by definition have to show anger? Not here, not this time.


Okay. One last look from the train station. Sigh...





I’m thinking that traveling backwards, in retreat, seems mildly depressing. As we are about to purchase train tickets back to Levanto, it strikes me that we should do this differently: I ask Ed – you want to stop for the day in Lucca? Lucca? It’s lovely and historically interesting and it’s not completely out of the way… I am making this up. I have never been to Lucca (though have wanted to go, so there’s that).

An afternoon in Lucca. On the downside --I can’t say that I feel unencumbered. There’s the constant opening and closing of the umbrella. It goes like this: from Ed - Nina, it’s not raining. I close the umbrella. I feel a few drops. I worry about the camera. Up goes the umbrella. - Nina, it’s not really raining. And so on. Additionally, my backpack, which was heavy before, is even heavier now that I have added a pair of boots (yes!) and some bottles of olive oil from Tuscany.

And still, it is a lovely walk. The walled city center is mostly a pedestrian zone – easy to navigate, pretty to look at. We’re told to be sure to catch the Murano glass Christmas tree on one of the squares. We do. Possibly it looks spectacular when lit at night.





The town center appears almost completely empty. As elsewhere along the Mediterranean, the doors close for a several hour lunch break in the afternoon and we happen to be here, poking around, during those hours. We see kids walking home for a meal and later, returning to school. We see the occasional person scooting from one point to another. But basically, we see very few people.





And then, just as we’re turning back toward the train station, the city opens up. Lights go on, shops open, the pedestrian traffic picks up.





This isn’t a town that is especially besieged by tourists. But this makes the shops especially interesting. And we are tempted. By this place, for gifts to take back for the holidays (the shop is called "The sisters;" it's run by four of them):





And by this place, to restock my dwindling supply of dried porcini mushrooms. The shopkeeper is proud of the salami, the cheeses...





...but especially of the porcini. The stems are removed, the caps are set free of dirt! They are the best! He tells us. And then the inevitable – where are you from? Germany? No? America? Really? I have a brother in law there. I have always wanted to go too. Here, life can be tough…





[I pass on reminding him about our failing auto industry and the tanking market; I would imagine that the three automakers would draw little sympathy here anyway. Ed and I see small electric cars everywhere. We see recharging stations where they are plugged in, side by side. Tiny and so very pretty. Some are made of fiberglass. Wont rust. Practical. Cheap. And for distance travel, there are the trains. When no one is striking. Here, life can be tough. There, life can be tough. On balance, what can I say, life can be tough.]


Our last train ride for the day. We’re on the coast now, but it’s dark. And still, it’s all so familiar. Riomaggiore, Monterosso and finally Levanto.

Here, too, I notice now the holiday lights.





It is funny to see the Americanization of the Italian Christmas. The Santas, the music – to me, it’s like a clumsy package of American holiday cheer. We’ll walk by a shop and hear Jingle Bells (hands down the most popular shop song here) or White Christmas. What does that even mean in a region that knows no snow? And right next to images of Santa, there’ll be the more traditional images, captured so well in this bakery display in Lucca. Baby Jesus, in chocolate, sheltered in a carved out Pannetone (or is it bread?). And with a 'Merry Christmas' train on top.





In Levanto, we go back to Miki’s, our favorite pizza place. Salads, anchovies in lemon and oil, and the wonderful wonderful porcini pizza with extra garlic and olives.










We are giddy from the good food and the carafe of Levanto white. It’s past ten and the waitress, happy to have us back in this slow season, brings us limoncino. We watch the Italian version of Funniest Home Videos on the TV screen. They seem especially funny this evening – to us, to others in the room, to the waitress.

Our last night in Italy (we’re heading back to Nice the next day). I ask Ed – did you like it? It’s okay, he answers.

I suppose there is the upside: if you plan a trip with a person who doesn’t fully engage his (non wilderness) surroundings, you cannot entirely fail. You can never achieve magnificence, but at least you cannot fail.

from Italy: occasional traveling companions

I read that Italy is experiencing severe winter rainstorms. And with that – flooding.

No kidding. Yesterday, the Arno looked like a river on a summer evening. Still and quiet. With lights reflected from shoreline buildings (see previous post).

Today, it hurled water furiously between bridges.





Camera crews were out taking films. Others watched and took note.




Me, I was remembering my very first trip to Florence. It was in 1966. Just before the great flood that destroyed so much of the city.

Water follows me. Or does it? Today, the rain hovered and came and went and it barely touched us, even as the skies were so dense with cloud cover, that you could not even imagine a patch of hope.

I write this from the Osteria de' Benci. I am eating dinner here and I am half listening to the dispute at the table next to mine. She is so angry! And he, in his attempt to add normalcy to their evening, is not hearing a word that she is clumsily speaking to him.

Such passion! An Italian thing? No, not at all. The woman is American, the guy is British. But their voices stand out beyond the buzz of Italian in the room. And it’s not that they are louder, or more comprehensible to me. It’s that I hear their agitation over and beyond whatever else I hear. You can't not hear it. We're programmed to pick up signs of distress.


The early afternoon remains wet, though not especially cold. We walk across the Boboli Gardens, Ed and I, and Ed wonders what the fuss is about. It’s hard to explain why I love this quiet corner of Florence. The view? Sure, great view…




…but that’s not it. It’s the peace amidst all the (admittedly beautiful) chaos. The smell of Mediterranean foliage after the smell of…city. Ed listens and pets a cat that seems to live here. And then another cat. The second pet is much longer because the cat responds with great fondness.




Now, at dinner, the pair at the table next to mine is talking about a living funeral. My God. Really? I want people to celebrate me for who I really am! -- she says to him earnestly, dramatically. Is it the wine? No, they seem to be working through a carafe, much like any other dining pair.


At the Boboli Gardens, I could not have my anticipated cup of espresso. I could not sit down and scribble nonsense. The café was closed for the season.

We make our way to the Medicis and Science exhibit at the Pitti Palace, just at the edge of the Gardens. I look at the exhibit through the eyes of a person who understands science, understands how invention takes hold. I look at it through Ed’s eyes.

Outside the Pitti Palace, we find a café. I want tea to warm up, but I see that it is 4 Euros. Too much. We leave.We enter another place – a corner bar/café/bakery. We both order a large cup of vegetable soup. The bill comes. Ed remarks that it is the most expensive bowl of soup he has ever had. (I believe him: it was 8 Euros per person.)

Early in the evening, we stop at a wine store to pick up a very basic bottle of wine. Ed hands over a 5 Euro piece and the wine is ours. I am listening to the music in the background. Lovely! – I tell the shopkeeper. Who is it? He writes down the name. There’s a CD store a couple of blocks from here... Let it go, Nina, Ed tells me. But, the song is sticking and I want to hear it again.


It's very late now. I'm eating dinner alone. Ed had too many biscotti by the kilo. He’s not hungry. I have within me an eating schedule, he does not.

I think about people who travel together. I admire them. Me, I can only travel with maybe a handful of people out there. At the end of the day, I like quiet.

Some ten years back, I had eaten dinner here, at the Osteria dei Benci, with my young-ish kids and their dad. We sat outside then and one of us loved the food, but I do not remember the who or the what. Just that one of us loved the food.

I’m finishing my meal now. Ending with a Florentine steak. Have you ever had it? It’s thin, very thin, very rare inside, swimming in olive oil, garlic, herbs. It’s interesting that my last meal in Florence ends with a Florentine steak. No dessert. It’s as if I thought about this meal when I was climbing the mountain in Riomaggiore.




And I tell myself: this is a dumb way to end a meal. I'll get an espresso and a dessert on the main piazza. I remember a night when I sat there with daughters and some money grubbing guy was singing “don't worry, be happy.” It was sort of sweet.

But the piazza is wet and empty and the café is closed.





Did I mention that not all the narrow streets of Florence are decked with holiday lights?





I walk home, to our warm little room of the Albergotto.



On Friday we return to Levanto for a final night in Cinque Terre.

from Italy: settling in

The clouds have settled into the region and we have settled into our warm room just two blocks up from the river Arno.

We have no agenda. Tell Ed how to do a city, be it Paris or Palermo, and you can watch his feet harden, his eyes bear down, and his interest wane. Tell him that we’ll set out and take things as they come and he’ll look up and sometimes even smile.

The rain comes in gusts and spasms and through no doings of our own, we manage, until the very end to avoid all of it.

In Florence, I have only two goals – that Ed should see the Duomo from up close and that we should set foot in a museum that may stir his soul. Oh, and throw in a view, too. What is Florence if not a city that is as beautiful from above as it is from its inlaid stone pavements.

In between, there are, of course the small delights. Some are Florence through and through. Some are seasonal. Some are idiosyncratic, given the two players who have such definite ideas about what brings pleasure.

So, most importantly, the Duomo. Up close.





Nearby street scenes offer plenty of people, but not much people watching material. It’s not cold, but it feels wet and people are in a hurry. Except for this guy.





The merry-go-round is admired, but no one is taking the time to put their child on a horse.






Me, I'm steering Ed to a museum that is actually a new one for me as well -- the Museum of the History of Science. It's not surprising that I would have passed it by up to now. Perhaps my least favorite subject in school was physics. (Perhaps Ed’s most favorite subject in school was physics.) Still, there is currently a special exhibit devoted to Galileo’s telescope and I think both of us would find good things there.

Indeed. The exhibit is superb! (And we are the only visitors, so that we can lose ourselves in the beautiful story of how Galileo and those after brought us closer to the science of heaven.)










Inspired, I forge ahead. We should see the Pitti Palace, where there is an exhibit on the Medici rule and the development of science. On the way, we stop for what becomes an Ed favorite: biscotti by the kilo.





But, there is a penalty for pauses. We just miss the cut off time for buying entrance tickets (3:30 in the winter… who knew…) And the Boboli Gardens are also closed for the day. The view will have to come from elsewhere. That’s not hard. We walk along the Arno, then climb up the hill to the Piazza Michelangelo. From here, you can truly take in Florence -- the city that changed art and life and the link between the two.






It’s starting to sprinkle. Nothing severe, really, but a reminder that luck wont let you coast. We walk back along the river at dusk and I watch cranes play at the waterfront, as lights pop up along the bank and in the calm waters of the Arno.





Back at the Gelateria Neri, we refresh ourselves with wild strawberry and dark chocolate gelato.





At the hotel, I struggle with Flickr. Flickr doesn’t like my connection here to the Net. Flickr, like a pouting child, is acting up. It’s near 9 before we set out to dinner.

I choose Acqua al Due even though I am mindful that this place draws a mixed crowd. Italians, sure, but also Americans. It has been discovered some years ago and it has kept its spot on the trendy lists for a while. Still, I really like it. If you’re here only for a few days, why not go to a place that’ll serve you five dishes of varied pastas and risottos for 9.50 Euros? And three salads for 7 Euros? And a wonderful porcini omelet that is puffed up like a soufflé?

No, no meal photos. Not enough light to show off the foods. Outside, on the other hand, the lights are plentiful. And beautiful.