remembering Paris

This post is written in snatches, during the chaotic hours of the last day of travel. Not all chaos is miserable, but it is true that an excess of it can inspire a headache. The challenge is to contain it.

The day after Easter. We’re heading home. We have quite the pleasant flight from Milan to Paris. With magnificent views of the Alps.





I feel so buoyed by it all that even work seems pleasant: I take out my papers and spread them on my lap for the short duration of the flight.

We land. I gather my papers and stuff them in my pack. I retrieve my little suitcase and we take the metro to Paris.

...Where dusk is setting in and people are out and about.





One short evening in Paris, and then we're gone. We have a very early flight back home. But, one short evening can be one fine evening on a night when the air is crisp, the people are still milling around in a pleasant post-holiday disposition, and the cafes and restaurants are crowded with a seemingly content clientele.

We’re trying out a new little hotel with a new face and an old name (De La Sorbonne, right next to – you guessed it – La Sorbonne) and fabulous prices. We are given a room with a gorgeous view toward the Pantheon.









We are happy to be here, happy with our week in Sardinia, happy to be returning home.

...until I notice, up in that lovely little room overlooking the Pantheon, that my backpack does not contain my black little purse. The one with all my licenses, credit cards, IDs and with all the cash that I had allocated for our stay in Paris.

I don’t leave things. I stumble and break cameras fairly frequently, I worry that I toss away papers I don’t intend for the trash, but I don’t leave things in hotels or airplanes or at the security check at airports. I am too compulsive. I double check and cross check and I zip packs to the very end.

Still, things happen. A passport fell out of my pack on a train ride to Milan four years ago and now (oh, cursed Milan!), on a flight out of that same city, my purse falls out somewhere near seat 18A and I am here and it is God knows where. Dubai maybe?

For one hour we try all available search tools. I make calls, leave messages, send emails. Getting nowhere, I put the issue aside.

It’s late. Time to give Paris at least a half-smile.

Stores are closed, wine shopping has to be put aside for another day, another visit.

We walk in the Odeon area of the 6th Arrondissement. It’s always so lively here. I like that. It makes me believe that in this world, people feel connected to one another in good ways.





We stroll past the oyster stand – Ed is always tempted by it and this time, perhaps feeling just a touch sorry for purseless me, he suggests that we take in a couple of big ones from Bretagne.





Standing on the sidewalk, with a swig of wine from the Loire. Heaven. I grow mellow.

We walk on, trying to decide where to eat. A grocery store is still open. I’m at least able to pick a rosé or two for home, but my heart isn’t in it. Who knows where my credit cards and cash are. Perhaps on a whirlwind shopping tour in Hong Kong. Or Copenhagen.

Again I put these thoughts aside.

We go to dinner at the possibly best comfort food place I can think of – Polidor.


I order a fish terrine and steak au poivre, followed by a tarte tatin. Ed asks for escargot and a chicken with morels. I’m regaining my balance. Life is fine, the evening is beautiful, what will be, will be.




















In the wee hours of the morning, we make our way back to the airport. The streets shine after a morning scrub. Paris is fresh and ready for the day ahead.





We catch the RER train and turn our backs to the city. The sun is almost up. Almost.






At the airport, we encounter the French bureaucracy in full swing. Ed grows terse (a rarity). Because we're here, and there is a room with objects left on planes,  but I cannot get to it -- not in person, not by phone. I must fill out an official form and it must be processed and eventually it will make its way to that room and someone will check to see if indeed it’s there. But by that time I will be in Chicago and sending it will be complicated and expensive. And, of course, one has to cancel credit cards and reapply for licenses, because one cannot assume a good outcome.

And so we fly back and I work on the plane and the irony is not lost on me that if I did not always insist on working during flights, I might have my purse in my pack right now.


Still, for a short little interlude there was Paris. In April. Lovely as always, but especially now.

Milan, reconsidered

We wake up to a beautiful day in northern Italy. We have only a few morning hours in Milan, but, despite my reservations about the city, I want to use them well.

I calculate that if we take the tram to the Duomo (the magnificent cathedral, with most certainly, Milan’s best pubic space in front of it), we can pause there for a little while and then walk over to catch the public city bus to Linate – Milan’s smaller airport. (Only DC offers as good a bargain in getting you from downtown to the airport efficiently and cheaply.)

Ed gallantly pulls my little suitcase, we hoist our packs and set off.

Our b&b is by the old canal of Milan – an area worth a stroll at another time.





Not today though. We are still at the tail end of Easter week-end. Not only is the cathedral a destination in its own right, there’ll be people watching opportunities on the square.

Indeed.





We walk toward La Scala...





...and through the quieter streets in back. We come across a gelateria and I cannot resist a cone of what they call seasonal flavors: strawberry and pistachio. Neither strike me as particularly April, but the ice cream is delicious with the strong colors of the warmer seasons.






And now it’s time to head out.

My next post will be tomorrow, from Madison. Even though between Milan and Madison, there’ll be the handful of connecting hours in Paris. I’ll take a handful. There’s something about April in Paris...


P.S. The unexpected twist: what would you do if you lost your purse on-board a flight to Paris?  Freak out? Stay calm and purchase wine?

I'll give an update tomorrow. From Madison. After work. It's as it has to be.

Easter in Sardinia

I wake up to the sound of corn popping. No, that can’t be right. I listen. Rain, gusts of rain hitting the tiles of the roof. Then silence. Followed by a muted clap of thunder and then silence again.

That’s a surprise. My periodic checks of weather.com didn’t reveal rain for the day. But then, my periodic checks have been for Sardinia, Italy. As if that were a town or a zip code! Sardinia is large enough that what happens in point A may be completely unrelated to what takes place in point B. When I asked David, the hotel proprietor what’s the Sardinian language like, he tells me that there are actually four that developed. With regional variations.

When I first imagined a trip to Sardinia, I thought we’d at least do one major excursion outside our central region. It turns out that there was enough to see and do in the province where we were that we didn’t have to drive much. (Which, considering our different tastes in styles of driving, is a good thing.) And when I think of returning, I think of coming back to Rialo, the village where we are now.

I’ve grown attached to it.

By the time we’re up and about the rain has stopped. The air feels clammy and the skies are gray.

At breakfast, we see the traditional Easter tarts: with ricotta cheese and raisins – we had them last night at the bakery!





After breakfast, I hear a boom again. And then rapidly another. No, that’s not thunder. I walk out toward the main road. I look down the road (as does she...)





The Easter procession to church has begun.






The villagers follow behind. But unlike the older generation – most are in smart jeans. Tight-fitting, trendy jeans. Sardinia has jumped on the wagon of modernity here. Even as it is displayed at the most traditional of ceremonies.



We haven’t much time left. Enough for a quick walk and a meal. I had asked David about an appropriate Easter lunch. It’s a challenge, as I want something traditionally Sardinian. A place where I an likely to see people from the island.

He tells me: I’ve made you a reservation at the Agriturismo in the next village. [Agriturismos are rural places where you can stay simply and eat whatever the hosts prepare for the main meal; you can also participate in farm work if you're so inclined; there are many, many agriturismos in Italy, as there are in France – though they’re called chambers d’hotes there, and I'm not sure the French imagine you'd want to do anything but eat and sleep during your stays.) They do a fantastic Easter meal. And I told them Ed doesn’t eat meat and that you have to leave by 3 because of your flight.

Never in all my travels have I come across someone so completely keyed into the needs of his guests as David is. La Lucrezia is beautiful enough, but add to it David’s concern for the wellbeing of visitors and you have an absolute jewel of a place. At Sardinian prices. (People who remain in Sardinia don’t expect to make great money here – David tells me earlier. You want to find wealth, you go to the mainland. Here, people stay because they love the island, their friends and family. No one expects to grow rich. There is no real industry. Income differences between islanders are small.)

David has seen us get lost so often (did I tell you about the time we, unknowingly, drove through the pedestrian streets of the provincial capital of Ortisano? Winding up on the main square on the sidewalk? No? Well, it happened...) that he takes great care to sketch out the directions for L’Orto, our Easter lunch place.



We finish packing and are out of the village of Rialo by noon. One more walk along the coast – I tell Ed. We have about an hour. Let’s look at the quartz beaches.

On any day these beaches – just ten kilometers due west – would appear eerie. The white pebbles look almost like salt crystals. (In fact I asked Ed to sample one just to be sure they aren’t salt.) As if someone had taken shaker and sprinkled it generously across the land.





But today, on this warm but gray day, they present a landscape that is starkly different from all we’ve seen thus far.

The pebbles are hard to walk on (perhaps easier for kicking a ball around, especially if you don’t mind falling on the graveled surface)...





We quickly retreat to the path. And push beyond the time we should allow for this walk. I don’t want to be late for our meal and so we hurry back to the car.

Except I can’t find the directions to the Agriturismo. I can’t even remember the name.I feel like the dotty old person who needs to have things written on the palm of her hand -- like reminders on where I may have left the car.

A quick search does not magically produce the needed sheet of paper. We have no choice but to head back to our village and sheepishly ask for a repeat of the instructions. Knowing, too, that we will now almost certainly be late for the meal.


With ears burning, we walk into the dining room of L’Orto. The proprietor, Francesca greets us so warmly that I am able to put aside the deep embarrassment of being the most difficult guests in the room (the ones who come late, leave early and wont eat the baby lamb or the baked pig).

There are maybe fifty diners, seated at half a dozen tables (and then there is our little table for two). Families. Generations of them.





Francesca and her staff are bringing out plates of food and we quickly catch up. Plate after plate of the freshests, most exquisitely honest food.

Crayfish, artichokes, salami (for me!), pickled onion, eggplant, peppers...





Oh, and octopus! (I have recovered.)





The second course has the Sardinian pasta, fregula (slightly larger than couscous) with loads of artichokes, as well as a platter of spaghetti with mussels and clams.









And finally, a fish course – grilled, deliciously fresh. One fish for each (Just one to share! -- Ed asks. One each -- Francesca tells him. I'm the boss here.)




We end with local sheep's milk cheese -- hard, salty, delicious!





...oranges and of course the Easter tarts.





Francesca is a wonder woman. We are completely happy.


The drive to the Cagliari airport is, well, fast. But it’s easy. David told us the roads would be empty (like during Super Bowl in the States, except the Sardinian Super Bowl is unfolding around tables) and he was right. I’ve had the wine so I leave the driving to Ed.

We make it in fifteen minutes before they close the gate.



We’re in Milan now. The evening is wet and cold. Our b&b (Villa Magnolia) is chosen for its prettiness and price. To get both in Milan you have to go far from the center. We get off the bus from the airport, make our way to the subway, get off and look around for the correct city bus. Finally. The rain is gentle, but cold. The number 47 pulls up, we get on. Only to learn we’re heading in the wrong direction. We get off, wait for the one on the other side of the street and wearily make our way to a warm room.

Sardinia on holiday

You can feel it here: it’s Easter. Saturday evening, as we popped into a pastry and sweets shop just before closing, I could sense it: the end of a busy baking period. Time to pack up and go home to the family. Everything will be closed tomorrow. It’s a holiday.





By our standards, Sardinia hardly gives the holiday any attention at all. There are no Easter bunnies in store windows, no foil covered chicks, no Easter baskets on display – really, if you're out and about, it’s hardly noticeable. A few small chocolate Easter eggs in the sweets shop. That’s it.

But, oh, you feel that it’s a special day.

Of course, there is also a palpable air of week-end-ness. Of families and friends taking time off from work on a gorgeous spring day.

And it is a gorgeous spring day.





Hard as it is to leave La Lucrezia's garden, we need to get moving: we borrow David and Clara’s country bikes. Meaning, these are the well worn bikes you leave in your country place: the wheels are out of true, the brake pads can’t keep their hands off the rims, the seats tilt, the chains heave. But I’m determined. I have a trip in mind and the bikes fit well into the plan. Ed takes some time to make any possible adjustments to the bikes. I ask Paolo (David’s cousin) for the key to the safety lock.

Oh, I can’t imagine where it is – he says with a shrug.

But how do I leave the bikes for our hike? What if someone takes them?

Oh, that would be wonderful! These guys need to get new bikes! If that happens, just call me, I’ll pick you up.

We set out.Through the village...




And immediately we take a wrong turn. I mean, we’re not really stupid. The sign says Putzu Idu. We want to go to Putzu Idu. Who knew that Putzu Idu is a secondary destination. That really, this is the road to San Giovanni. And along the way you can also make a couple of turns and wind up in Putzu Idu. But don’t kid yourself. Pitzu Idu is an afterthought here. Pitzu Idu is better reached by another road further down.

Who knew.

We start out at a leisurely pace. I proclaim the virtues of biking even as Ed wiggles in his seat. But it is good to be out of the car. To stop frequently without worrying about cars going into ditches. To admire the different growth patterns of grape vines. And of course, the olive trees.












And the lambs: to admire the spring lambs.




The road is very quiet. We amble along enjoying the breeze, the brilliant skies, the gorgeous landscape. But after more than an hour, we seem to be nowhere near Putzu Idu.

We continue pushing (heaving?) at the pedals.

Twenty kilometers later (more than twice the conventional distance) we see it.  Right at the edge of the village is the grocery store. With my name.


 


We cross over the peninsula on a rough stony road (this is where Ed gets off and walks the bike, claiming that his rear end can only take so many knocks), past trees of gold and tall stalks of fennel, past another crumbling tower (2000 B.C? older?)...









...and finally we see the beaches before us.




We leave our bikes and walk along the coast.

I imagine that this place sees quite the number of summer visitors. I'm told that Sardinia in July and August is unrecognizable. But now, the beaches are nearly empty. A little girl is trying to play soccer with her dad and brother...





Further down, we encounter another group cleaning sea urchins...





And a boat, with two napping Sardinians. (On our return walk, they were in the same spot, still napping.)





We walk along sandstone cliffs, passing by yet another tower...





...and we take in the coastal flora – the fragrant rosemary, the rock plants in gold and burgundy...





Around the bend, we come across a quiet cove. We climb down, take off our shoes and stretch out on the rocks. Ed wades in, looking for sea urchins.






 


If you were to ask me what defines a peaceful moment, I’d say this: the tranquil hour spent in a private cove, wading through the shallow waters, looking out for sea urchins, and finally reclining on a rock, as the sun warms your back and the nape of your neck. This is the tranquility that I think about when my day is just too full of work.







Later in the evening, as we walk along the quiet main street to our village pizzeria...





....I think about tranquility again. Of a different kind. Where your mind is not racing because you are in the company of others you know and care for. We’re at the local pizza place now, and it is extremely busy. Tables of ten, tables of six, mostly younger people (or at least younger than us).

Next to us there is a small boy. Giacomo. I ask about his age.
Eight months.

Oh! I thought he was younger!

That’s because he has too little hair! – his mother laughs. Of course she would think that! Sardinians have uniformly very dark, full heads of hair.
What a beautiful smile – I comment.
But his cheeks – they are so fat! – she protests, as only the proudest mother could protest. Her sister (at least I think it’s her sister) reaches over to play with Giacomo’s hand. We do this for about three minutes – admire Giacomo’s every move, respond to his every gurgle. Ed watches, amused.

And this scene is replayed again and again. The waitress who is so very busy, will pause for a greeting and will especially pause to smile at a baby. And there are quite the handful of babies and children even as the hour grows very late.

The next day is Easter. Today, many in the village want to forget about cooking. Today we eat pizza.






Easter Sunday will be our last day in Sardinia. In the evening, we'll fly north to Milan and on Monday we make our way through Paris, so that I can be back in Madison by Tuesday. As usual during these complicated return trips, postings will be at a day’s delay. By the time I’ll be writing about Easter here, we’ll be in Paris. By the time I write about Paris, I’ll be back at work in Madison.