So it's not just the city of Venice that's gorgeous . . .so are the men
About Me
- Elizabeth
- Long blond curls, Blue-green eyes, 5' 7", Curvy A creature known to be laughing about as much as she talks . . if not more than that. Artist- mediums of expression: flavor, foods, words, pencil, paint- or things that act like paint. Favorite Food: Whole milk ...not a food, I know.
Daily Bread Bakery
Country Club Market
Flower Zone
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A seven Euro cab ride will get you there from the train station. Hidden among orange buildings smeared with black and yellow graffiti and very narrow streets that are bumpy enough to jiggle you out of your seat, the All Osteria Bottega exists. You’d never guess that what seemed like a wrong turn would bring you to this small restaurant with smooth wooden tables, surrounded by wooden chairs with straw seats, sparkling empty glasses waiting just for you and little hanging lights veiled with lace shades.
I found out about this place from someone, who told me to talk to someone else, who told me I had to and eat at this place. In fact, the only reason I took the train to Bologna, called the “stomach of Italy” for its cheese, rich sauces, filled pastas, and famed Prosciutto di Parma, was to eat here. After countless meals across the continents this dinner beat them all. I’ve never been to pleased after eating a meal!
To begin, I ordered the wine my waiter suggested: Savoia Enrico Vino Frizzante Bianco, which means a lightly sparkling regional white. It was mild, refreshing with citrus and just the perfect touch of gravel.
First Course: Prosciutto di Parma
Rippled and convoluted, these shining silken scarves of flesh are rich and have not the slightest hint of pork. Instead, the flavor is more like butter with a delicate hint of meatiness, like in a good cheese. What’s more is the texture. The flesh and fat become one harmoniously creamy bite that literally melts on your tongue.
Second Course: Tortellini in Brodo di Cappone
It’s a specialty of Bologna. Tiny bellybuttons of pasta filled with just a taste of meat, bathing in barely hazed broth dotted with floating golden oil and melted patches of Parmigiano Reggiano cheese. The pasta is bright yellow and al dente and the filling is a mild pork sausage, the broth is simple, warm, flavorful and making me miss m mother.
This is the premier dish of the house. When ordering my waiter insisted I eat this, they’d make a special single portion for me he said, (it’s usually served in twos only) I agreed without even asking what meat was in it first. Serendipitously, it consisted of a veal chop, bone on pounded out ever so thinly breaded, fried, then covered with prosciutto and parmigiano and allowed to relax in a pool of sauce- a thick reduction of broth. It was rich tender and salty and accompanied by ultra crisp, thick-cut fries seasoned with rosemary
My least favorite part of the meal was this risotto cake. Caramelized rice pudding dens rich, and covered in a dark caramel skin. The consistantly musy with hard centers of rice granules was just not my cup of tea. But then again, I'm picky when it comest to sweet things.
My reservation here was for 1:30pm and the time now is 3:15pm. I have just poured myself another glass of wine and the bottle is still far from empty. I now know why there’s strong coffee at the end of the meal, and why everyone takes a nap before going on with the day. Sigh, this was just lovely. The smiling owner, who sat down with and chatted with every guest, beamed as he insisted I pay only three quarters of the bill. This lunch couldn't have been any better!
"No, don't tell us!" He almost shrieked from across the train table with an almost cocky twinkle in his eye.
"Yeah, let us guess." Chimed in the man to my right
"Ok, fine" I blushed with a sigh.
They grinned together with a suspicious low hum of a "hmmmm" and eyebrows raised. Names soon flew out of their mouths in an attempt to discover mine. Some were flattering and that you'd expect a mysterious woman to own up to as hers, while others were silly what I'm hoping were just ridiculous jokes. Alas, neither of the men could guess my name. The decision was made to narrow down the selection of possible names by guessing my heritage and going from there. Again "alas," as they too sucked at guessing that. I eventually had to clue them in on my mainly Norwegian and German blood.
"Helga? Olga? . . . No, I've got it! INGA!"
"Really? Inga?" I raised my eyebrow and took a swig of milk.
"Oh Yeah!"
The gentleman across from me then explained that Inga was a name for only gorgeous women and I should be in want for such a name. I laughed and I tried my best to work on journaling that was past due. But their playful interrogations continued. I think it was shortly after they found out my name was Elizabeth, that yellow button-up to my right went back to what I assume had something to do with a business. However, the smarmy man sitting opposite me gave himself up as James Biss a Canadian magician. (I'm not lying. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried!)
After revealing his name and occupation, the interrogations swapped. I begged him to tell me some sort of illusion. I insisted that revealing his secrets to me couldn't hurt. I mean who was I going to tell. And I had some questions about an illusion I had seen/been part of last fall.
"Only if you promise not to tell a single soul!"
"Ok, hahaha I won't"
"Repeat after me. I promise . . ."
"I promise"
"Not to reveal the secret"
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| A photo from that day I received from Magic Man |
"Of what I'm 'a-boot' to learn"
"Of what I'm about to learn"
"Even if I am tortured"
"Even if I am tortured"
"Tickled"
"Tickled"
"Or given treats"
"Whahahahatttt? Hehehehehehehe . . . .(he glared) . .eh-hem ok, or given treats"
What was that secret you wonder? Well, you'll just have to keep wondering.
I haven't told a single soul and I'm not about to reveal the mysterious ways of a seasoned, and if I might add, dishy, Canadian magician I met on the train to Bologna.
photo from http://www.destination360.com/europe/italy/images/s/italy-trains.jpg
How To Catch a Date In Less than 15 Minutes!
Step 1: Slip on a comfortable airy dress that makes you feel great in the heat and about yourself. Don't worry about how trendy it is or what belt to wear with it or even slipping on a pair of heels. Just wear your hear down and put on some shimmery sandals.
Step 2: Walk into a busy piazza just after dark and buy yourself an ice cream, just one scoop.
Step 3: Now, simply walk and enjoy what is around you and the delicious ice cream. Within minutes a young Italian Man will separate from his hang out group just to talk to you. Now there are no guarantees on if you'll like the first one, but take heart my friends. After another 5 minutes you'll have someone else running after you just to say, "Hello."
The True Story:
I was antsy, not looking to run into anyone. I just wanted to enjoy Florence by night and fill every second of being awake with experiences. Little did I know what would happen.
The pale-eyed, blond-haired fella that bumped into me came off a little nervous but sweet. Conversation and flirting soon followed his "caio." I tried to steer the conversation's focus away from where I was from, names, gelato, Florence, and compliments, but when I asked what his favorite food was the reply I got was, "What is Food?" Apparently, this was one Italian "stud" that just knew the survival guide to light English conversation. Strangely enough I couldn't explain to him what food really was. I said names of food and made eating motions with my hands and mouth but he just got more confused and 'm pretty sure he thought I didn't understand what I was saying in Italian. I mean what would you do if someone just said 5 random food and expected you to know they meant all edible things? haha.
The night was clear and still so agreeing to link arms and holding hands was fine by me. We walked through peachy lighted streets and came to the Ponte Vecchio. The lights reflected off the black water and made warm glow. Just then my walking pall tried to lay one on me. I sweetly said no and he asked why. I tried my best to explain using simple words that I just didn't want to kiss him or well anyone. At this his brow furrowed and the expression of pure concentration was adorable. His answer was pause then a laugh and, "I do not understand." We both laughed and kept walking. When we were nearly to the Piazza again he tried again and I tried to explain again that it really wasn't him. He seemed great but no thanks. The poor guy had the most innocent frown and let out a big sigh with, "I just don't understand."
Hahaha I think he got over it. His palls were meeting up to go clubbing anyway. I told him he'd find someone who'd love to kiss him there, but I'm not really sure he understood that either.
Hopefully you have better luck ;)
This morning I slipped on my airy white dress, flung my camera into a rather large purse, and savored a prosciutto and arugula sandwich as I walked to the train station.
The stone streets and rugged walls are so seductive. I can't help but want to run up to the sun-warmed, jagged edges and press my skin against it. I restrain myself to a gentle drag of my fingers across the stones instead. If I were to give in to my strange wall-caressing tendencies I'd have never make it to Pisa today.
After a short train trip, I stepped out of Pisa Centrale. I quickly found a map to the Leaning Tower which could just have well screamed WALK FORWARD. Apparently it was a couple kilometers straight ahead.
On my leisurely walk that crossed a river and passed by several pizzerias, I just had to stop for some gelato. I'm a real sucker for that sweet, smooth frozen treat. So, whenever I can find a shop that doesn't pipe in the pre-made goop into their tins but paddles in home-churned creaminess, I stop in for just a taste. I rationalized these indulgences with I may never again have the chance to waltz down the streets of Pisa, or any other city here in Italy, on such a hot day with such a good cone of gelato. Once in my hands the ice cream melted at what seemed an especially speedy rate so I quickly consumed the cone before it dripped down to my elbows. I ended up sharing a fountain with some fellow bathing pigeons.
Refreshed and just a little damp, I went on my way down the twisting streets. Just then, a very tall dark man in a trench coat approached me. Sometimes I think things here in Italy are so postcard, but then it's like I have to go back to reality by receiving a strange shot of odd comedic theatrics . . . I guess I should just be glad I don't get shots of horror and hysterics. HA! Back to trench coat man, so as he looked down the street toward me and slowly stepped closer. His arms began to move and in a vampire-like swoop. He grasped the center of his coat and began to pull it open (Dramatic jaws-like music builds) A mild and strongly twangy "hello" escaped his lips as I gave what I think was a wince. Then, I realized the inside of his coat was filled with watches and he was merely one of what I soon learned was many watch-pawning guys around here. Jeepers. You'd think that after a few thousand tourists wincing they'd have come up with a better way of approaching tourists with watches.
Past the many carnival type stands and strange men in trench coats there it was. The slightlycock-eyed tower I had stared at in history books was right there in front of me. Now it looked like pop-up book with a page where the paper just wasn't quite long enough to make the piece stand straight up. If you squinted it sorta looked real.
With a few steps closer, I could tell that this was't paper. There was the tilted shadow and the duomo and that strange statue with the babies drinking milk from some weird-looking animal. The architecture was so incredibly intricate, and in some places even glossy. Everything together was seamlessly gorgeous, the thousands of people and strange salesman included ;)
Lingering in the strange chapel was pleasant and peaceful. The wooden pews were worn to smooth perfection by the many hands and tushies that had rested on them. Although some of the sculptures depicted the fall of man and terrors of life, other were soothing and emotional, my favorite being that of a mother and two children. The milky white complexion and smooth fluid shape of the curves lead my eyes into a long, dance of glances. It was beautiful, striking, and a somewhat unexpected pleasure of the day.
Once my tour group reached the top, all fears and worries were blown away by the endless blue sky, tall mountains and clay-colored scallops that formed the canopy of Pisa. The breeze cooled out warm bodies. Everyone seemed to just beam with the kind of smiles that make your cheeks hurt, even the Indian couple that had been fighting in Hindi and English the whole way up.
The stone streets and rugged walls are so seductive. I can't help but want to run up to the sun-warmed, jagged edges and press my skin against it. I restrain myself to a gentle drag of my fingers across the stones instead. If I were to give in to my strange wall-caressing tendencies I'd have never make it to Pisa today.
After a short train trip, I stepped out of Pisa Centrale. I quickly found a map to the Leaning Tower which could just have well screamed WALK FORWARD. Apparently it was a couple kilometers straight ahead.
On my leisurely walk that crossed a river and passed by several pizzerias, I just had to stop for some gelato. I'm a real sucker for that sweet, smooth frozen treat. So, whenever I can find a shop that doesn't pipe in the pre-made goop into their tins but paddles in home-churned creaminess, I stop in for just a taste. I rationalized these indulgences with I may never again have the chance to waltz down the streets of Pisa, or any other city here in Italy, on such a hot day with such a good cone of gelato. Once in my hands the ice cream melted at what seemed an especially speedy rate so I quickly consumed the cone before it dripped down to my elbows. I ended up sharing a fountain with some fellow bathing pigeons.
Refreshed and just a little damp, I went on my way down the twisting streets. Just then, a very tall dark man in a trench coat approached me. Sometimes I think things here in Italy are so postcard, but then it's like I have to go back to reality by receiving a strange shot of odd comedic theatrics . . . I guess I should just be glad I don't get shots of horror and hysterics. HA! Back to trench coat man, so as he looked down the street toward me and slowly stepped closer. His arms began to move and in a vampire-like swoop. He grasped the center of his coat and began to pull it open (Dramatic jaws-like music builds) A mild and strongly twangy "hello" escaped his lips as I gave what I think was a wince. Then, I realized the inside of his coat was filled with watches and he was merely one of what I soon learned was many watch-pawning guys around here. Jeepers. You'd think that after a few thousand tourists wincing they'd have come up with a better way of approaching tourists with watches.
Past the many carnival type stands and strange men in trench coats there it was. The slightlycock-eyed tower I had stared at in history books was right there in front of me. Now it looked like pop-up book with a page where the paper just wasn't quite long enough to make the piece stand straight up. If you squinted it sorta looked real.
With a few steps closer, I could tell that this was't paper. There was the tilted shadow and the duomo and that strange statue with the babies drinking milk from some weird-looking animal. The architecture was so incredibly intricate, and in some places even glossy. Everything together was seamlessly gorgeous, the thousands of people and strange salesman included ;)
As I walked the wide gravel pathways, I watched tuckered-out little ones find rest in patches of shade on the lush green squares of grass. The beeps and clicks of cameras surrounded me as if I had walked into paparazzi. Except here the people were smiling and sweetly swapping cameras for pictures. Some poses were simple smiles while hanging onto their loves ones, while other more ambitious travelers were posing for the "look-ma-I'm-holding-up-the-tower" shot as their counterparts hollered "to the left dear."
Like a good little tourist, I wove through the crowds, purchased my tickets to walk up in the newly and permanently sturdied tower, and of course got a ticket to the duomo.
BELOW: photographs from inside the Duomo
BELOW: photographs from inside the Duomo
After about an hour of holding my camera to my eye and throwing my head back to gawk at intricate designs on ceilings, it was my time to head into the tower.
I can't even tell you how surreal this was. I have always been intrigued by this building. I remember researching Pisa and Pizza and staring at the many pictures of this wonder. Now I was here. I was about to go inside those photographs and make my own.
I never realized how just a few degrees to the right and an extremely worn and slippery spiral staircase could make such a difficult climb. It was almost nauseating. The higher we got, the teenier the stairwell. Not just teeny tight spirals, but small steps with deep worn footprints that made slipping inevitable. No matter the language we spoke, everyone knew what the one ahead and behind them was thinking, "Dear God, don't let them slip!"
Once my tour group reached the top, all fears and worries were blown away by the endless blue sky, tall mountains and clay-colored scallops that formed the canopy of Pisa. The breeze cooled out warm bodies. Everyone seemed to just beam with the kind of smiles that make your cheeks hurt, even the Indian couple that had been fighting in Hindi and English the whole way up. I really wish I had a pause button in life, or just something to capture the fullness of this moment. I felt somehow outstandingly accomplished to have made it here. In some way ,my addition to the thousands of people in Pisa today was significant, if only to me. Maybe it was the childlike awe that came back to me, or just that the long-haired girl everyone joke is Rapunzel incarnate finally made it into a tower . . .Whatever the reason, the feat of making it to the top of such an ancient tower held a sense of belonging and destiny that no book, story, sentence or picture could ever convey.
At first glance the many rows of 3/4ths-covered popsicle sticks would suggest to the average person that this is indeed a popsicle shop. The next thought, "hey that's a little strange." I mean who thought that there couls be such a thing right.
Well in Florence this brightly colored shop is crafting more than just gelato or "popsicles." Inside these frozen cases are pops of gourmet sorbet and ice creams. Some lucky not-pops are covered with chocolate and sprinkled with nuts, while others are simply left alone to be enjoyed for their simplistic superiority.
If you are ever in the area, I suggest ditching the tall cone of gelato from the many generic tourist-catching gelaterias of the town and stopping here for a refreshing bit of ice cream on a stick! I got the pistachio covered in chocolate, smooth and creamy,melted quickly and really did taste like pistachio not some artificial green goop!
Oh and remember when you get there, It's just not a popsicle ok! :)
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| L to R: Mr. Germany, Mr. Norway, Me |
I am off to dinner with new friends from Norway and Germany. All of us are looking for some good food, especially my Norwegian buddy, he too is a traveling cook. We stuck up a conversation about lefse of all things. Sometimes I can’t believe the people I run into on these trips. Not only do I meet a Norwegian cook, but the guy from germany is from an area really close to my end destination, Hamburg!
. . . Dinner
So we end up walking to this trattoria, which basically means a semi-casual restaurant. I can't remember the name of this place for the life of me, but I do remember that I read it was great from some online place before my hostel host suggested it.
We arrive and are seated near the door. We wait for seemed like forever, but was probably half an hour to get our order taken. Everything on the menu is in Italian and everyone here seems to speak English. Hmmmmm not a good sign . . .too much english seems like a tourist trap . . Wait! There's a couple to my right that is Italian, ok wheeew!So we finally get our order in, Red wine (the most reasonably priced bottle) a traditional cold Tuscan soup and chicken meatballs, also traditional for me, a fish and potato dish for the German, and fresh mozzarella then rabbit for the Norwegian.
The mozzarella look lovely, but I know that nothing will ever live up to my experience in Carpaccio!
My soup, pappa al pomodoro, arrived. I was really excited to try this classic Tuscan dish, since I fell in love with a Tuscan bread and vegetable soup called ribolita. This soup differed in that it was all "pomodoro" (tomato) with the bread rather than mixed vegetables, spinach and white beans. I love tomatoes so this seemed like a match made in heaven. However, this soup was served chilled and had been pureed to a very thick and smooth consistency that reminded me of a dip. After one bite, I wasn't sure I could eat much more. the starch in the bread had become nearly gummy from the pureeing and the olive oil made it too rich. Although it looked like a creamy puree it felt like an overly starchy sauce. Bite after bite i did my best to have an open mind and use bread to spread the "soup" on to help, but alas I just didn't like it. I think this is the first thing I've eaten in Italy that I just couldn't finish.
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"Awww, you didn't like the soup?" my handsome wait asked with a pouty frown. Sadly I explained yes, I didn't like it but I like the wine and had high hopes for my next course. He tried to get a smile out as he picked up the almost-full bowl.
Our entrees arrived, delayed again, but hot so we were happy. My plate looked yummy. The dark ruby sauce shone with a glaze of orange and yellow covered oils coated and overflowed from the topes of my three blonde-colored meatballs. A criss-cross of pale white toasts cleverly accompanied them both for sponging up every last drop of red. MMMMM! Now this was delicious. The rich sweet and acidic tomatoes had reduced with earthy herbs and was finished with plenty of peppery olive. The result was a polished caramelized taste with just a hint ruggedness from the herbs and oils. Perfect over simples chicken meatballs. Needless to say I practically licked my plate clean.
The boys' dishes looked nice as well. Mr. Germany said that although he was very reluctant to have fish he really enjoyed he fish and potato gratin. Mr. Norway was a little disappointed that the sauce on his rabbit was so sweet. he gave me a bite and I agreed it was a bit sweeter that I would have made it.
Well, I have to say the food here was a bit hit and miss. Another confirmation that where too many english speaking people dine the food is likely to be less than fireworks. Maybe we just caught a couple off-dishes and a couple winners by random. I'm not sure.
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| The fish |
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| The rabbit |
In the end the very long wait for our bill was enough to tick off my buddies and they agreed that we could have done much better than this place. The whole night left us begging for our dinner, the wine and even a refill on water.
For me the company and the meatballs were enough to make me mostly content with my dinner.
To see a video clip of these two hooligans and myself on the way to dinner visit the Runaway Cook youtube channel.
Watch the "friends in florence post"
or paste this link in your browser.
http://www.youtube.com/user/RunawayCook?feature=mhum#p/a/u/2/LMuQ8YithOE
To see a video clip of these two hooligans and myself on the way to dinner visit the Runaway Cook youtube channel.
Watch the "friends in florence post"
or paste this link in your browser.
http://www.youtube.com/user/RunawayCook?feature=mhum#p/a/u/2/LMuQ8YithOE
My “new” 4-wheeled suitcase has already broken. Not only have I scraped/melted (yes melted) the two main wheels completely flat from dragging them across these rocky roads, but today the extending handle came flying out of the bag while I was running across the Salerno platform. I then had to cock my bag to this strange angle and push it by the body to get it to move.
After arriving in Florence and pushing my bag out to the street and across the extremely busy road still hunched over and hugging the bag to get it to wheel on the other two wheels, I stopped. This was enough, I had no idea where my hostel was, the first hostel I planned to stay at ended up treating me horribly over emails and this new one was somewhere down a side street.
My body is quivering with exhaustion, I haven’t eaten much today and I thing I lost a pound in sweat. This was enough to make me decide to cave and flag down a cab.
The 10 Euros to take me across the busy streets and down the small quiet ones was worth it.
The door to this place, seen left looks old and a little like there should be a man on the other side who tells me something about horses and colors.I’d have never found this place on foot, I barely found it when the cabbie pointed at the wall!
I push the “knob” and some sort of lock clicks. I hobble up and over the stoop and climb into the wall. It’s dark in here once the door shuts, only high windows illuminate this hallway from yonder flights of stairs. Past the second door, made of opaque aged glass and dark dusty wood are those very stairs and a rickety old elevator. The elevator wins.
Standing inside this 2x4 foot space seems like a bad idea as is slowly takes me up and up. All I can think is how much I just want to sit down and be in a semi-safe spot to do it. Upon arrival to the top floor I open even larger thicker dark doors . . (Oh lord what is this place right!) to reveal an English woman sitting behind a desk with a smile. Rest at last. I can’t wait to take a shower!
(top photo from http://www.taxi-driver.co.uk/?cat=42)
Yes! We have not missed the bus. That pasta lunch was cutting it close so I’m pleased to see that we don’t have to wait another 30 minutes. Oh LORD! Beyond these folding doors is a mere 3 foot space up the steps, followed by a solid wall of people. Behind me are my two companions and many other eager would-be passengers. I step on the bus and brave the crowd saying, “scusa” to them all as I press my already sweaty body against theirs.
We are the last 3 out of 6 people who actually get on the bus. It’s so crowded and the people keep pushing us apart from each other and into other passengers. My fingers cling to the bars above us as the overloaded block of metal leans around the curves. There’s just no tasteful way to stand here. Why do they make busses with windows that DON’T open in a country that’s very hot and very overloaded with tourists when it’s at its hottest?! I think I’ve already posed this question somewhere. . . But really! I think this is the Italian way to get rid of the weaker tourists. :/
It’s a couple stops before Positano and two people on my right have gotten off the bus after some local guy insisted that this stop was for Positano. He promptly stole their seats and invited an extremely blonde German chicky to sit by him. My outback buddies and I just rolled our eyes.
Positano is straight ahead of us and down a hill, but I’m not sure if this is the right stop. That same guy insists this is the stop for Positano, but we don’t get off because who trusts some blonde-loving-bus-stop-lying Italian. Well he wasn’t lying, that was the right bus stop and we end up realizing this half way up the road and convince the driver to let us off.
We are now stuck on this tight curvy road, left to hitch a ride or walk for about a mile.
We try the first and get stuck with the latter. To see a video of our journey from the top to the bottom click here.
After an entertaining walk down a gorgeous mountain to a rainbow colored town, we stop for some gelato. . . correction - get the gelato, melone, creme, and limone . . mmmmmm. It was delicious. After that we head to the beach. I realize that I’ve forgotten my swimming suit. Ahhh perfect, I guess I will wade into the water with my white dress and just enjoy it up to my knees rather than over my head.
I spin my feet around in the hot gravely sand and just stare at the red, cream, blue and green buildings. They are better than the pictures and I can’t believe I made it here. After a bus strike, a lousy Italian that got called in early to work, getting sick and rearranging my interviews, I finally made it here. The view alone was worth it.
On the way back to Salerno, we rode the bus and listened to Italian teenagers make fun of us In their own tongue, not know that we had a fluent Italian speaker in the group. OAF!! I guess all I can do is smile and laugh at the trouble of this trip and treasure the silly and special memories made. I love Italy . . . even when they don’t love me.
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