Barbara's Travel Blog

My good friend Pivo

Now that my health is back up to snuff, naturally the first thing I wanted to do was mess with it, with some assistance in the form of Czech beer – or pivo.

It’s hard to compete with the beer-fest I left behind in Munich, but the Czechs are up for the challenge; after all, the world’s first lager was brewed in Pilsen, in West Bohemia. The Czech Republic is the world’s #1 beer-drinking nation, with the average Czech consuming some 158 liters each year.

Not knowing a soul in Prague, I set out last night on a pub tour offered by City Walks. Our lively group of about 15 Americans, Canadians and Australians made its way through three pubs during the formal tour, and then a subset of us headed to a night club afterward.

The photo to the right is my only one of the night, as I didn’t want to be that annoying tourist taking photos in bars – I hate that. Unfortunately, Pivo has a way of blurring the details, so I’ve sadly forgotten most of the colourful discussions, inappropriate jokes and entertaining incidents of the evening. My limited memories include an evening-long “will-they-or-won’t-they” debate about whether or not the not-quite-suave Aussie and the supposedly disinterested chick from Baltimore would hook up (they did); an enlightening discussion with a Canadian about international politics and the fate of humanity; and a lesson on Australian slang, including ending every sentence with “fuckin’.” Those Aussies are a riot, fuckin’.

Amazingly, after managing to get my drunk ass home last night, I actually remembered to set my alarm to get up for my hair appointment this morning. I had decided to get my roots touched up, having learned in Italy that my hair grows significantly faster in warmer climates.

Since there’s no Aveda salon here, I decided to try out the world-renowned Toni & Guy salon, which is known as the best in Prague. In the end, a fancy salon is a fancy salon – though this one does have the unique distinction of having washed my hair four times in one visit. (I’d try to explain the logic behind that, but I can’t say that I particularly understand it myself.)

It’s a rainy day today, so I’m going to chill out at The Globe and save the “Mysterious Prague” tour for another day.

Cheers,
Barbara

Taking a Stand

Now, I don’t want to offend anyone, but can I just say that Europeans really have botched just about every aspect of bathing (or more specifically, showering) that they possibly can?

First of all, would you people stop being so freaking stingy with the towels already? Is it really that big a deal to provide two towels per person? Have you ever considered the possibility that I might take two showers within a 24 hour period? Or that I might want a separate towel for my hair? And don't get me started on the complete lack of washcloths!

Second, the drainage problem. There’s this stuff called Draino in the U.S., and I’m pretty sure we can find a way to get some of it over here. Please, use it! Showers are so great when you aren’t standing in three inches of scummy water!

But most importantly, what is up with this handheld shower thing? Seriously, no one wants to sit in the tub and wash with one hand while they hold the showerhead with the other hand. Or, alternatively, set the showerhead on the bottom of the tub while they shampoo their hair with both hands, all the while freezing their bums off and trying not to let the showerhead shift and spray water all over the bathroom.

Thankfully, my mother didn’t raise me to sit back and accept what was handed to me. Oh no, she raised me to rise to the challenge – especially when there’s a construction project involved. So, after scouring the apartment this morning for all the tools and materials at my disposal, I proceeded to construct a mechanism to hold the showerhead up, thus enabling my first real shower in Prague.

My mother would be so proud.

Back to the Streets

It was a bit torturous taking a full day to rest and recover from my recently acquired head cold, but I forced myself to do it. Unfortunately, unless you find it entertaining to read stories about me reading Ishmael, making significant progress at rating the music on my iPod, and figuring out how to reheat leftovers without a microwave, I don’t have much to share with you from my day of leisure.

Thankfully, today I woke up feeling significantly improved, so I set out to do some more exploring and sight-seeing. It was a beautiful, clear and cold day – great for sightseeing, though less than ideal for my stuffy nose. Nonetheless, I managed to trek through a good deal of Prague’s Staré Město – or Old Town. The Old Town Square was bustling with people, and I got a chance to check out the very cool Astronomical clock, which tracks not only the time, but also which houses of the zodiac the sun and the moon are currently in.

Winding through the narrow streets of old town, I eventually found myself at the Vltava River, where I spied Prague Castle in the distance, and got an advance look at the National Theater, where I will see Swan Lake next week with my Mom and her friend Betsy.

While I was in the neighborhood, I took the opportunity to visit The Globe, a relaxed and popular expat hangout that combines a coffee shop, Internet café and English bookstore all in one. I can imagine getting addicted to The Globe – and I can easily picture my bud Ashlee having spent many a late night here when he was living in Prague.

Of course, in light of the dramatic differences between the climates of southern Italy and the Czech Republic, I’m finding my limited wardrobe a bit unsuitable (excuse the pun). As such, I was virtually forced to do some clothes shopping today. And while I could live without the colder climate, I’m thrilled to be back in a big city, with all the luxuries that come with it: Non-tourist shopping; a broad selection of good, diverse restaurants; cheap & easy public transportation; and, most importantly, take-out food!

Back to basics

You know that feeling when you’ve been sitting in one position for a long time, and you go to stand up and your leg is asleep and won’t function properly, so you have shake it and stomp your foot and look like an idiot while you gimp around for a while, re-learning how to walk? Well, that’s kinda what it’s like to leave Munich’s plush Meridien Hotel (and all the hotels that came before it), and settle into an apartment in Prague for three weeks.`

I arrived yesterday afternoon, after spending a full day travelling from Munich to Prague on the charming Czech train system (evoking memories of Greece, where you can actually see the train tracks if you make the mistake of glancing into the toilet you’re about to precipitously hover over). The antiquated transport and the dilapidated buildings flashing by the windows were a sobering reminder of the 40 years of communist rule the Czech Republic (then Czechoslovakia) endured until 1989.

The central train station in Prague was a stark contrast to the pleasant and efficient station I had left behind in Munich that morning. Here the station was dark and dirty, with a confusing morass of mostly Czech signs (which, naturally, I can’t read), and a couple taxi signs pointing in opposite directions thrown in for good measure. After exchanging some cash (the Euro is accepted here, but you get gouged for using it), I let myself get suckered into paying about $20 U.S. for a taxi to my nearby apartment – a ridiculous price by Czech standards, but a fair trade for a tired and hungry American who wanted nothing less than to open up a map and figure out how to lug her suitcase a kilometer uphill to her latest temporary home.

Fortunately, the apartment exceeded my expectations; it’s bright, roomy, and at about $26 a day, is a fantastic deal for central Prague. Sadly though, it doesn’t come with luxuries like room service, so I found myself faced with one of the basic tasks of life that I’ve not had to deal with much lately: grocery shopping. Even coming up with a list of what to buy felt daunting, after not having done it for more than a month.

In the end I fared all right, though I wasn’t gutsy enough to buy any of the extensive selection of sausage-like products offered at the meat counter (seemingly the only form of meat available there), and I would love an option for getting fresh basil that doesn’t involve buying a small plant and somehow nurturing it to adulthood in the next three weeks. But I now have the basics to sustain myself, at least.

Unfortunately, after a visit to an Internet café, the trip to the grocery store, and a quick stop for Chinese takeout, I found myself arriving back at the apartment with a sore throat and stuffy nose – which developed overnight into a full-blown head cold. I could be mopey about it, but I’m actually grateful that if I had to get sick on this trip it’s now, when I have no one else traveling with me, a kitchen where I can make myself hot tea and packets of mystery Czech soup, and three weeks ahead of me – and thus no feeling that I’m missing out on anything if I take a few days to rest. Which is exactly what I will do now.

Inquiring minds want to know

As always, it doesn't take long for the goings-on of Intel's PR managers to make it onto the Inquirer: Intel's Alfs makes merry at Oktoberfest. Hic! Looks like George and I are now famous for our beer drinking! :-)

Drunken debauchery, Bavarian style

Munich's infamous Oktoberfest is the world's best beer-swilling, sausage-guzzling, standing-on-tables-and-singing, debauched, lederhosen-wearing, hangover-inducing party in the world. As you can imagine, I fit right in.

Originally, I was slated to stop in Munich for just one night (tonight) on my way to Prague. But when I found out that Intel’s central PR team had plans for an Oktoberfest outing last night, I adjusted my schedule to come in a day early. I’m so glad I did, because I had a great time and met a whole host of cool people from the Munich office. I was also pleasantly surprised to find my former manager, George, there – apparently his stint in EMEA isn’t quite over yet. (In fact, George and I are both now featured on the official Oktoberfest web site. How cool is that?)

I can’t begin to recount all the fun I had and witnessed others having (literally I can’t – hello, I was drunk!), but some of the highlights I can recall after reviewing the photos include: Seeing the EMEA PR team get down & funky; all the funny headwear people wore; the absurdity of hearing hundreds of Germans singing John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Roads"; general fun & silliness; riding the swings and seeing Sven get kicked off for misbehaving; more drinking & dancing at an Irish pub after Oktoberfest closed down at the ridiculously early hour of 10:30pm; and Matthias’ charming brother Mike (on the right in the fourth photo below) walking me home in the rain.

Thanks a bunch to the EMEA team for showing me a great time at my first Oktoberfest. Prost!

~Barbara

Unaided Centrino awareness in Europe

Just a quick entry from the Zurich train station, between trains. I was sitting here enjoying a bowl of soup and surfing the Internet with the station’s not-so-cheap Wi-Fi, when three Chinese students came up and asked if I would help them transfer some photos from their digital camera to a memory stick, using my laptop.

I was happy to help, and while the files were copying, one of the girls asked if I was able to use the Internet from my laptop here at the station. I said yes, and she said (and I swear, this was totally unprompted): “That’s because of Centrino, right?”

How cool is that?

And on a related note, I did stop by a lace shop in Rome (at the request of Scott M.) and ask for a Centrino. Again, completely unaided, they proceeded to show me a lovely selection of lace doilies – one of which Scott will be the proud owner of, come November when I return to work.

So it looks like Centrino awareness in Europe (in one form or another) is going strong! :-)

Vive la France

I never paid much attention to the concept of a love-hate relationship between the U.S. and France, but after two days in Chamonix, I’m starting to feel like a microcosm of that very phenomenon.

Arriving here on Sunday, the last let of my day-long train trip from Milan was a two-hour ride on the scenic Mont-Blanc Express. The “Express” part is seriously questionable, but “scenic” is quite fitting. The train winds slowly through the steep cliffs of the Alps, taking its passengers past rivers, waterfalls, lakes, plummeting cliffs, quaint villages, and expansive forests. On the ride up, Gnorley and I made friends with Scott & Tricia, a couple from Boulder Colorado. They were like my friend April split into a couple – she’s a travelling nurse, and he manages a rock-climbing gym.

Once in Chamonix, I immediately felt right at home. Everywhere you look it’s Northface jackets, jeans and fleece – it’s like being at Mt. Hood in Oregon, but with cute Swiss-style buildings. Unfortunately, my joy was short-lived.

[If this were a soap opera, this is the moment where everyone would look dramatically worried, turn their heads to show their good sides, and then they’d fade to commercial. Thankfully, it’s not. :-) ]

On Monday I was set to do two tandem paraglides with a local instructor, but all definitely did not go as planned. I ended up only doing one of the jumps, because when it came time to go running off the mountain, I basically got dragged for the last part of it, over rocks and dirt and who knows what else. My clothes got all torn up, I lost one of my tennis shoes, my camera got significantly damaged, and my legs are now bruised all over (in the picture that shows my knees, imagine that where you see dirt on my jeans, that’s where there are now scrapes and purple bruises on my legs). As you can imagine, I wasn’t eager for a second go of it. (That said, I will say the view was spectacular, and I think if I’d had time to do the full training I probably would have had a much easier time on my first real glide.)

Being the master seamstress that I am, I was able to salvage my jeans (after all, these days they sell jeans with tears in them, so now I just look trendy). My favorite fleece, a turtleneck and a t-shirt were all goners though, along with the shoe, so I set out to replace them, which turned out to be a bigger challenge than I’d anticipated. Apparently in Chamonix there are no Amazonian women like myself who wear size 42 shoes (10 US), so eventually I resorted to just walking into stores and asking if they had any shoes at all in my size. After visiting more than a dozen stores, I finally procured a new fleece and a pair of tennies. Phew!

Sadly, the new shoes came after the brief break in the clouds today, which meant that I made the ascent to see the top of Mont Blanc on the Aiguille du Midi cable car wearing sandals. I was fairly comfortable in my open-toed shoes in town, but after rising 3,842 meters and disembarking into fierce winds and sub-freezing temperatures, let’s just say I was a tad uncomfortable. It was worth it for the stunning views of the Alps though – and to see the stunned look on the face of a Japanese tourist who noticed my poor choice of footwear.

Regrettably, I had to make the tough decision not to bring Gnorley out of the backpack while we were up on the cable car platform. The wind was so strong, I didn’t dare risk bringing him out for a photo shoot, lest he meet the same fate as my right shoe. I did get a shot of him on the hotel balcony though, so at least he can prove he was here.

Tonight I will head in search of the last on my list of French foods I must try in France: Fondue. I’ve already enjoyed a fantastic French omelette (much different than American ones), tasty cappuccino (which, oddly, is served with whipped cream here), fabulous baked goods, delicious chocolate, and of course fine wine. In my personal love-hate war with France, at least the food has been an ally. C'est la vie!

Arrivederci, Italia!

Well it’s a damn good thing I didn’t have my heart set on seeing the world-famous gothic facade of Milan’s duomo, because I would have been one disappointed tourist. Upon existing the metro station (that’s right, I mastered Milan’s metro in a mere one day), I turned to the majestic duomo to find it covered in scaffolding, top to bottom. The inside was impressive though – it was much bigger than I would have imagined, and had a hushed feeling that reminded me of the Pantheon in a certain way, in spite of all the tourists. It’s almost as if you can feel the ghosts of the saints who are buried there.

But enough about history and religion – what Milan is really about is shopping! Actually, I write that with more enthusiasm than I was actually able to muster for it, because the shopping in Milan is way out of my league. The people are packed in like sardines, the stores are endless, and the prices are eyebrow-raising. I quickly waved the white flag and moved to the sidelines to people-watch from a nice little café.

I can’t even begin to adequately capture the bizarre sights I saw, but let me tell you, I don’t think the high fashion of Milan is going to make its way to Portland any time soon. There was a lot of seriously spiked hair, tight jeans tucked into suede moon boots, disturbing amounts of leopard print, and so much more. After a couple hours of people-watching, I headed back to my hotel, made use of the spendy wi-fi they offered, and packed up to head to Chamonix the next day.

As I say good-bye to Italy, it is with sadness that I also say good-bye to the best olive oil, tomatoes and mozzarella I’ve ever tasted (yes, I’m now officially an Italian food snob). I won’t, however, miss the challenge of getting online in most areas of Italy; the insane drivers; or the utter addiction of Italians to their cell phones and cigarettes (both of which I saw in use on the steep hike up Mt. Epomeo in Ischia, if you can believe that!). There have been so many memorable moments in the last few weeks, and I can only hope that Chamonix, Munich and Prague are at least equally fun, educational and entertaining.

Lastly, an aside to Nicole & Abby: I just have to note that the odds have diminished dramatically that your reverse hand-licking photo prophesy will come true, now that Italy is behind me. But I suppose stranger things have happened. ;-)

And then there was one

The rainy weather continued for the remainder of our week at the villa in Ricco della Golfo di Spezia – but on Tuesday, it contributed to an unexpected adventure. After spending most of the day accomplishing not much of anything, we finally reached the “I’m booooored” stage and headed out to find some entertainment in nearby La Spezia. We didn’t have anything specific in mind, though Lenore had spotted a grocery store earlier in the week, and thought that would make a good first stop.

Little did we know, the “Coop” supermarket in La Spezia is actually part of a mall! What better rainy day activity could there possibly be than hanging out at the mall? I wouldn’t quite put this one in the ranks of US malls, but it was pretty similar in its offerings to a Fred Meyer, which was plenty to keep us busy. We spent the better part of the day finding Capri pants for Erik (he doubted the Capri at first, but is now a proud owner of four pairs!), perusing the broadest selection of groceries we’d found in all of Italy, and chowing down on cheap mall pizza.

Wednesday we headed off to Florence for a whirlwind day, starting with a morning tour, followed by lunch and afternoon shopping. The tour was great (thanks to Walking Tours of Florence), reminding me of why I love Florence so much – there’s just so much fascinating history, art and architecture there!

[Warning to the guys: The next paragraph is about shopping. Proceed with caution.]

And as if that’s not enough, Florence is known as the best place to buy leather in all of Italy (if not the world) – and trust me, we did our best to buy out the city. Erik & Lenore are both now proud owners of new leather coats, and Lenore has a new purse and gloves to boot. I went a little wild and bought two new coats (one red, one black) and a leather backpack. And I was overjoyed to find when I got home that my fake red Prada purse from Rome perfectly matches the jacket. Belissimo!

After our long day in Florence (and the much longer drive home), I was barely prepared for Erik & Lenore to depart for home on Thursday morning. I waved goodbye with mixed emotions – it’s been an unforgettable trip with the three of us, but I also felt ready to turn outward and start meeting other travellers and locals, which can be hard to do when travelling with companions.

Unfortunately, I didn’t meet a soul during the past two days alone at the villa – not that I’m surprised. In a town that small, it’s rare to find anyone who even knows how to say hello in English, much less have a conversation. And it’s definitely off the beaten tourist track. So I had a couple days of just me, Gnorley, my books and BBC TV. I plowed through The Da Vinci Code in no time (I highly recommend it, by the way, esp. if you are going to be travelling in Italy), and got more than my fill of British news.

I also got a bit of a middle-of-the-night scare… I awoke last night to a weird creaking noise that sounded distinctly like footsteps. Needless to say, as a woman alone in a big country villa with no phone, I had made absolutely sure to lock all the doors and windows before going to bed. And I’d been in the villa long enough to become accustomed to the normal sounds of the night, but this was different – this was clearly something in the house, walking around, and I was freaked out!

After lying there for a while hoping the noise would stop (it didn’t), I finally mustered all my courage and decided to track down and confront the source of the noise. I turned on the light, got out of bed as quietly as I could, and dug in my backpack for my little traveller’s knife (feel free to laugh heartily at this image – I mean really, what was I going to accomplish with a two-inch knife?). I then headed out to explore every room in the house, and finally found (drum-roll please)… nothing. But oddly enough, when I went back into my bedroom, there was the noise again. I stood there, puzzled, and still somewhat freaked out. Out to the hallway: No noise. Back into the bedroom: Noise. What the hell? And finally it hits me: there’s an animal on the roof. Thankfully, aside from my dignity, I came out of the incident unscathed.

So, between the lack of human interaction and the things that go bump in the middle of the night, I’m looking forward to the prospect of a hotel room in crowded Milan tonight! I’ll have one night there, then will continue on to Chamonix (in the French Alps) in the morning.

Ciao,
Barbara

Under the Ligurian Rain

We arrived Saturday afternoon at our villa in Ricco della Golfo di Spezia (which, loosely translated, means “the richness of the gulf of Spezia”) – a small village about 15 minutes outside the city of La Spezia. It is in Liguria, the Mediterranean coastal region that stretches from the French border in the west to the edge of Tuscany on the east, and features lush rolling hills, beautiful beaches and charming medieval villages. One of the specialties of the region is pesto, which was no surprise after we drove through fields of basil so aromatic that the car was filled with its blissful scent.

After a full day of driving from Rome, our arrival was perfectly timed to catch the sun setting over the villa and the surrounding hillside vineyards. “Villa Ferrari” is huge, with five bedrooms and two bathrooms, 11-foot ceilings, and lots of roomy yet comfortable spaces (both inside & out) to lounge around in. The villa is filled with fascinating antiques, and used to be the primary home of its owners, who lived here and worked the “farm” (i.e. the vineyard). Though the owners now live an hour away and manage more than 30 rental villas, the vines are still harvested for wine today. In fact, there was a 5-liter jug of Ferrari table wine left just for us, which we’ve been diligently working our way through.

That first evening, Lenore had arranged for a local cook to prepare dinner for us. The villa’s owner had warned us that the cook tends to prepare more food than necessary, but we had no idea what we were in for. Lenore headed out for a run and Erik and I set off to do a quick spot of grocery shopping, and upon our return we found the kitchen filled with wonderful smells, and overflowing with seemingly enough food for an army. We settled ourselves at the table on the back patio, prepared to delight in the abundance of food we had seen.

As she brought out course after course after course, however, we began to panic with the realization that we had initially spied only a fraction of what the cook had made. Since she spoke no English, we weren’t able to communicate that we were already full just on the appetizers. We couldn’t bear to hurt her feelings, so we kept eating… and eating… and eating. Finally, she left to take her assistant home, but managed to communicate that she would be returning to serve us yet more food. At that point, we sprung into action, wrapping up the food already on the table and putting it in the fridge, then moving our table settings inside to the dining room, since it had long-ago grown dark. When she returned, the cook seemed befuddled, but fortunately seemed to think we were just trying to be helpful, and shooed us out of the kitchen. After three more courses, the gorging finally ended, and we paid her the fee plus a hearty tip. We then tottered off to bed, stuffed to the brim and content in the knowledge that we had enough leftovers to last us the better part of the week.

On Sunday we woke up to misty hillsides and rain – not quite the “Under the Tuscan Sun” image we’d had in mind when we came here. Fortunately though, we’d already designated it as a lazy day, so we slept in and had a quiet morning, then headed out for a late lunch in nearby Porto Venere after the rain cleared off a bit.

Thankfully, the weather cooperated yesterday with our plans to visit nearby Cinque Terre. The “five lands” are a series of villages perched precipitously on steep, terraced ocean cliffs, and linked by train and footpath. The villages are colourful and quaint, and the inaccessibility to cars keeps the number of tourists at a bearable level. We hiked between the villages of Riomaggiore and Manarola, enjoyed lunch at restaurant overlooking the ocean, then took the train to Vernazza where we did some shopping and Erik and I hiked a bit more while Lenore sat in the shade and enjoyed the view of the waterfront.

Today the rain is back, so it’s another lazy day of reading, relaxing and enjoying fine Italian table wine. There’s something very cozy about puttering around in the big villa with the sound of rain outside – even if I am faced with the knowledge that my modest tan from Ischia is fading fast. Also fading fast are Lenore & Erik’s days in Italy… they will depart Thursday, and I will have two more nights in the villa on my own, before heading north to the French Alps.

But that’s enough on the future – right now there’s a thunder & lightning show to enjoy, a “mellow tunes” mix playing on my iPod and portable speakers, and a jug of wine with my name on it (quite literally)!

Italian Driving 101

Now that we are in possession of our very own rental VW Passat, we have come to learn the ways of the Italian driver much more intimately than in our one driving day on Ischia. Fortunately, we’d been warned in advance that the most important driving rule of all in Italy is to stay to the right unless you are passing; if you don’t, they will flash their lights, honk at you, and who knows what else until you get your sorry American butt out of their way. However, we’ve discovered several other idiosyncrasies of Italian drivers that have left our heads shaking or our mouths agape:

1) They tailgate like mad. It doesn’t mean they want you to get over (note aforementioned flashing/honking norm). It’s just the way they drive.

2) Lane use is optional. I can’t tell you how many times we’ve seen drivers meandering from lane to lane, spending much time lolling between two lanes, or 2/3 of the way into the shoulder. I’m not sure if they’re distracted, drunk, or just plain lazy, but we try to get as far as we can from these drivers when we see them.

3) Speeding is not only tolerated, it’s accommodated to degrees I would never have imagined. We have seen both police cars and ambulances – with lights flashing – pull to the right to get out of the way of cars that are driving faster than them (and exceeding the speed limit by significant degrees).

4) No space is too small to drive through, and you’d better get out of their way and let them do it. For example, Lenore was jogging and found herself nearly pinned to a stone wall when a car stopped near her to turn left, and another car came barrelling at her to pass the turning car on its right – a space that Lenore happened to be occupying. As Lenore pointed out, they seem to have no appreciation for the fact that, like hitting a deer, she would do significant damage to their car if they hit her.

5) Similarly, no space is too small to park in. The general idea seems to be that if at least half of your car (no worries which half) is off the road, then it’s a legitimate place to park.

Thankfully with Erik’s driving abilities, my map-reading skills, and Lenore’s eagle eyes, we add up to the equivalent of one reasonably competent driver, and have managed to get ourselves out of Rome and to & around the Tuscany/Liguria region. Now the question is how successfully we’ll be able to assimilate ourselves back into American driving when we all return to the great Northwest. Portland and Seattle drivers, you have been warned!

Ba-ba-ba Ba-Baberini

They say all roads lead to Rome, and when you’re there, you certainly believe it. Much like New York City, it feels like the center of the universe, as if anything and everything can and will happen there. This was my fifth visit to Rome, and after three days I feel that yet again, I barely scratched the surface.

On Wednesday I left Positano, transported by private car & driver (thanks to Seahorse Car Services) to Napoli, where I met Erik and Lenore to catch the train to Rome. On the way, I made a two-hour stop in Pompeii, an ancient city that was destroyed in a massive volcanic eruption in 79 AD. Though all of its residents were killed, the city was fairly well preserved, thanks to the heavy coating of ash that blanketed the city.

I spent about two hours exploring the ruins, but frankly was frustrated by the massive hordes of tourists – apparently Pompeii is considered the Disneyland of Italy, in spite of the lack of rides and life-sized animal characters. I did my best to see the key sights while avoiding the crowds, and my favorite was the brothel, which featured tiny rooms with stone beds and interesting and explicit frescoes on the walls. Apparently prostitution was so common in ancient Pompeii, they actually had signs – shaped like male genitalia, to overcome the language barrier – that would point out-of-towners to the nearest brothel.

After my quick tour of Pompeii, I found Lenore & Erik at the Napoli train station, and we set off for Rome, where the fun began. And by fun, I mean pain-inducing saga with “Hotel Suck-Ass,” as Erik likes to call it (the actual name is Hotel Antica Roma – I encourage you to never stay there). Upon checking in, the self-proclaimed hotel manager (who it turns out is merely the night receptionist) showed us to what was supposed to be a two-bedroom suite. Instead, we found ourselves in a double room with a cot added for the third person.

Apparently this is where my travel writing gig turns bad, because it seems that someone (any odds on it being the night “manager”?) decided that with the low rate we were getting, we must have been mistakenly put in the suite, and thus corrected the problem by puting us in the quasi-triple. As they had already given away the suite to a higher bidder, our only option was to tough it out for the night. And an interesting night it was, with mustiness that left us all stuffed up, a power outage, and best of all, a bathroom door that came off the hinges, so that when one of us needed to use the bathroom, the other two had to leave the hotel room. Good times.

Needless to say, we checked out of Hotel Suck-Ass the next day, and checked into the nearby Hotel Barberini, which caught my eye in our search for a better hotel because of its similarity to my name. Turns out Barbara and Barberini are both synonymous for quality, friendliness and outstanding service. ;-)

At the nearby Piazza Barberini, we found a great Internet café that offered both computer rentals and Wi-Fi. This was an exciting development for me, as the Amalfi coast was far from a hotbed of hotspot activity. In Ischia and Capri I’d had to use the hotel computer to get online, and transfer photos and blog entries using my USB memory stick. In Positano I could get online at an Internet café, but was out of luck when it came to uploading any files.

In between playing musical hotels and checking e-mail & blogging, we also managed to get in some sightseeing and shopping. We took a great archaeological tour of the Forum and the Colosseum with Scala Reale tours, and checked out Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon and Piazza Navona on our own – three of my favourite spots in Rome. Our major shopping accomplishment was procuring a few very believable Prada knock-off purses, though Lenore and I showed great restraint and agreed to save the bulk of our shopping for Florence.

Probably the best part of our stay in Rome, however, was getting drunk on cheap red wine after dinner one night and proceeding to “drunk dial” our friens Jen, April and Tashana back in the U.S. I’d actually managed to forget the phone calls until the next day, when I got an e-mail from Jen, my roommate, that read: “Feeling a little hung over today? Your little drunk dial-up was freaking hilarious. I've never been drunk dialed from ‘Roma’ by people with braids that look like tiles.”

I could try to explain that last part, but really, when has drunken hilarity ever made sense in the cold light of day? =)

Until next time,
Barbara

Massage à Trois

Next on the agenda was a two-night stint in Positano – the hillside Italian town that is quite possible the most photographed view in all of Italy. I’ve longed to visit it for years, ever since seeing it depicted in the movie Only You with Marisa Tome and Robert Downey Jr., oh so many years ago. So imagine my delight when Hotel Le Sirenuse – known as the best in Positano, and featured in Only You – offered Barbara the travel writer a free night’s stay!

Le Sirenuse is a beautiful hotel, and the setting is spectacular. The view from my balcony was the fantasy image of Positano, and the room featured comfy furniture, beautiful artwork, and a sparkling bathroom with a huge Jacuzzi tub. The restaurant and pool level overlooks the same stunning views as my balcony, and there are lots of overstuffed chairs and couches to chill out on in the bar, one level up. I have to admit though, while the pool is gorgeous, it looked about 10 times as big in the movie.

The hotel is also one of only a handful of Aveda destination spas that exist around the world, so naturally I booked myself for one of their more unusual treatments – the double massage (or as William G. likes to call it, the “massage à trios”). This goes down as the best massage of my life, and I’m now convinced that the next step on the evolutionary path for humans is to grow two additional arms and hands.

Exploring Positano itself, I found a slightly more unique selection of shops than I’d found on Capri and Ischia. I bought a couple new dresses, and for the first time in my life, had custom leather sandals made for me. Later that evening, decked out in a new dress and my hand-made sandals, I headed downstairs for dinner at the hotel restaurant. Unfortunately, on the first step I learned that my new sandals had absolutely no traction whatsoever, and promptly fell flat on my ass. Picking myself up, I continued down three flights of stairs to the restaurant – holding the handrail with the grip of death. Unfortunately, already feeling a bit bruised (both my ass and my dignity), my dining experience was less than stellar. I won’t get into the details of the minor pity party I threw for myself, but let’s just say that I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m done travelling alone to expensive, romantic places. Not only is everyone already paired up (and therefore not interested in meeting new people), but I’ve also found that folks are generally standoffish at ritzy hotels.

And as for my second hotel in Positano… let’s just say that it’ll be a cold day with pigs flying overhead before I return to the Hotel Domina Royal. Aside from the scuzzy room and creepy porter, I found it oddly creepy that every single person in the hotel pool was wearing a bathing cap. I mean really, what’s up with that?

Nonetheless, I found Positano to be beautiful, and I was happy to have satisfied a long-standing dream to visit there. And here’s the photo I’ve been waiting so long to take.

The Gnome and the Princapessa

While Lenore and Erik headed off for a few days in Sorrento, I set out for a bit of luxury, in my role of travel writer. First up was Capri, where the five-star Capri Palace Hotel and Spa had offered to put me up for a night.

It’s hard to adequately capture it in words, but the hotel was absolutely gorgeous. It’s impeccably decorated, evoking a sense of peacefulness and tranquillity – which is much-needed amidst the tourist-crazed madness of Capri. Many of the rooms have private pools, and the ones that don’t (such as mine, sadly) have private terraces or ocean-view balconies. It’s obvious a lot of thought went into the renovation of the hotel last year, with details like terra cotta flooring, marble sinks from ancient roman baths, candles lighting the walkways, and so on. More importantly though, the service was amazing… little touches like bringing me a stool to set my purse on during dinner, remembering which brand of water I prefer, and the operator proactively offering to call my next hotel to arrange to have them pick me up at the hydrofoil. I guess that’s what $500 a night buys you, eh? In my case though, not only was the room free, but the hotel was tremendously generous and footed the bill for all my meals and a round of spa treatments. I felt like quite the princapessa!

At the hotel spa, I had my first truly satisfying massage in Europe – finally, someone who knows how to massage the neck and shoulders properly! After that came a detoxifying seaweed wrap and the patented “Leg School” treatment, as prescribed by the hotel’s on-staff doctor (who, by the way, resembles Al Pacino and has an unexpectedly calming presence). The leg treatment was a bit strange, but I can see how it would have positive effects after the week of treatments most guests get. It starts with a cold mud wrap – cold mud is painted on your legs, then you are wrapped up like a sardine in plastic, and left to chill for 20 minutes (literally chill – the mud somehow stays cold the entire time). Then your legs are wrapped in medicated bandages, and left for another 20 minutes. Finally, you get to alternate walking in hot and cold Jacuzzi pools for 15 minutes. Wa la, that’s Leg School! By the end of it, my legs were very tingly.

On top of all this, I was greeted with roses and fresh fruit in my room, given a grand tour of the hotel and spa, and treated as a special guest of the owner. It’s clear that Capri Palace understands the concept of service, and goes above and beyond in delivering it. Even Gnorley was extra happy, finally finding a comfy bed and the best night’s sleep he’s had on the trip so far.

The next morning, Gnorley and I set out to explore a bit of Capri before heading to Positano on our afternoon hydrofoil. The town of Anacapri has the usual round of shops schlepping postcards, magnets and the like, as well as plenty of clothing and glassware shops. It’s hard to get excited about visiting them though, when one has to elbow their way through the throngs of rude tourists that flock there daily.

To get away from the crowds, we caught a chair lift to the highest point on the island and took in the spectacular views of Capri, and Sorrento in the distance. After taking the requisite photos, I headed back down the lift again, and couldn’t help but think about the contrasts between Capri and Ischia – sister islands that somehow came out looking almost unrelated. Capri is like the chairlift itself – pleasant, easy, accessible… and you get where you want to be quickly. On Ischia, on the other hand, getting to the top of Mont Epomeo is an arduous hike up a narrow trail and over steep, rocky cliffs. But you know what? When you get to the top, you feel a sense of real accomplishment, and you actually want to stay longer than five minutes to enjoy the view – which can’t be beat!

Guess it turns out I’m not a princapessa after all. Who’d have guessed? ;-)

Ciao, Ciao!

As I sit on the hydrofoil waiting to depart for Capri, I feel both sad to be leaving Ischia, and excited for the adventures to come in Capri and Positano over the next few days. It’s funny how in just a week and a half, Hotel Romantica and the little town of Sant Angelo have come to feel like home.

Though barely anyone spoke English there, we did make friends with Francesca, the incredibly hard-working, helpful, and friendly woman at reception, and Anielo, the middle-aged waiter who has worked at the hotel since he was 14, and is now attempting to learn English. He comes to work at 5am and leaves at 11pm every day, seven days a week - yet he always has a smile for us.

And while most of the other guests keep to themselves, Erik, Lenore and I have our favorites we love to talk about: The two old ladies who know everyone - one is quiet and regal, the other mouthy and garish, but both are adorable; the freak who makes the weird cat noises at the spa; the girl who pulls her swimsuit up her butt crack to get a better tan; the young guy with the funny swagger; the couple who secretly fed the stray cats every night - a duty that we took over upon their departure; the German guy who’s mean to the cats; and so on.

Most of all, I’ll miss the beauty of this charming little island that somehow has escaped the attention of the hordes of American tourists that seem to dominate and often defile so much of Italy. As Erik so succinctly put it, “This is as quaint as all freaking get out.”

The boat is moving now, and out the window I spy the Castello de Ischia; now the island is behind me. And so I say good-bye to Ischia, and hello to Capri. Ciao, ciao!

Il Giorno Misto (a day of variety)

Yesterday was a well-timed break from our usual spa/pool/food routine. After more than a week of R&R, the gang was ready for a little adventure, so we headed out to explore the island in a teeny-tiny rent-a-car. As the most fearless (or some might say foolish) among us, I was the designated driver of the day. And let me just say, everything they say about Italian drivers is true. Mama mia! But in spite of frighteningly narrow streets, competing for space with full-sized city buses, reckless scooter riders whizzing by us non-stop, blind hairpin curves, confusing road signs and a strange noise coming from our engine, we managed to circle the entire island, taking in many sites along the way – and even driving on the sidewalk once!

Our first stop of the day was the 10-meter high “mushroom” in the bay of Lacco. It is said that this massive stone fell off Monte Epomeo (here’s hoping no one was swimming in its path!), and it has long been the most recognizable symbol of the town. The town launched a project in 1987 to protect the precious mushroom, which was being eroded by wind, sea and rain – and threatening what is surely their biggest tourist draw.

Next we headed to the Castello d’Ischia – a mighty castle fortress that towers 800 meters above the town of Ischia Ponte, on its own isoletto, which is connected to the main island via a 227-meter causeway. The castle was used for centuries as a strategic defence for the gulf of Naples, and housed hundreds of island residents when pirates made life on Ischia a tad unpleasant for, say, a couple hundred years. The castle complex includes a church and a nunnery, which has a creepy history of questionable death that makes me even less likely to become a nun than ever before. Aside from the creepy ostuary though (see photo album for more info), the rest of the Castello d’Ischia is beautiful and serene, and offers endless opportunities for photos straight off a postcard.

After cooling off over an air-conditioned lunch in Ischia Ponte, we set off for Monte Epomeo – the highest peak on Ischia. Rising 800 meters above the sea, the top of this ancient volcano offers amazing 360-degree views that go all the way to Capri and Naples on a clear day. We drove about two-thirds up the mountain, then hiked the steepest part on foot (unfortunately, in the hottest and most humid part of the day). The view at the top was well worth it though, as you might guess from the zillions of photos in my album. Amazingly enough, there’s a church and a restaurant near the top of the mountain – imagine making that commute every day!

And finally, we finished off the day with dinner at a spontaneously selected restaurant we spotted from the road. It was half castle, half giant rock – an architecture that’s actually quite common in Ischia. Apparently, around the II century AD, following a series of cataclysms and earthquakes, enormous blocks of stone fell from Monte Epomeo. Later, the island’s residents created shelters for themselves in these stones when they sought refuge from marauding pirates, converting them into homes, warehouses, cellars and even churches. On the inside, they look just like regular buildings!

On a side note, I’m pleased to report that I’m starting to pick up enough Italian to be able to communicate somewhat functionally now – which is especially helpful in light of the fact that Erik, Lenore and I are the only Americans staying at Hotel Romantica! And after the incident with Dr. Strangelove (see previous blog entry for background, if needed), I decided “mime” wasn’t quite working out as my primary means of communication.

I’m loving Italy and am excited to head to Capri on Sunday, but I just want to say that I miss all my friends and family back home, and wish you could be sharing this experience with me. And Gnorley misses you too!

~Barbara