Musings from Maine and Beyond

Sea Time

2010-05-27T17:40:00.001-07:00

I recently had an amazing opportunity to be a “Distinguished Visitor,” or “DV” as we were called, aboard the USS Bush (CVN 77) last week with a group of environmental professionals. We were invited to take part in a tour of the Navy’s environmental practices at sea. While I had been on the USS Reagan, while it was in port in San Diego, this would be my first time aboard a carrier at sea. I was excited, as I had heard much about Chad’s trip on the USS Stennis, several years ago and, in particular, about the flight out there on a COD (Carrier Onboard Delivery) and the harrowing “shoulder roll” it did as it dropped down to land on the ship; the joy of “sleeping” under the flight deck; and being catapulted off the ship upon departure. The USS Bush is the newest carrier and the last of the Nimitz class carriers. Construction began in 2003 and when it was launched in 2006 much of the interior was still under construction (in fact, parts of it are still being finished). Although it is the newest carrier in the Navy, its technology is already out of date, and it hasn’t even been out on deployment yet. They are already working on the USS Ford, and its technology will likely be out of date by its completion as well. To give you a sense of scale, the USS Bush stands 20 stories above the waterline, is 1092 feet long, can go 30 knots (though you can hardly feel it) and carries 6,000 people (the population of the average American city, according to one of our guides).

We started our journey at the Hampton Inn, just outside of the Norfolk Naval base, where we were met by representatives of N45, the Navy’s Environmental Readiness Unit, the organizers of our trip. After introductions, we were whisked off to LP1 (landing pad) on the base and then given a safety briefing on our COD flight, which included the issuance of a set of earplugs, cranials and a horsecollar. The cranials would go on and off at least a dozen times throughout our visit and were marked with “DV” just in case everyone didn’t already know we were visitors. Our flight out was very smooth, though quite loud (hence the earplugs and the cranials), and there was no infamous “shoulder roll” upon landing. Maybe it was the new 8-bladed propellers aboard our colorfully painted aircraft. Upon landing, we were greeted by the flight crew and escorted to the George HW Bush meeting room, which was decorated with old pictures of the Bush family, including a couple I recognized from Kennebunkport. It was stunning to see young George HW and Barbara and also little George W. The CO (Commanding Officer) of the ship introduced himself and gave us a briefing on what they had planned for us during our stay aboard. We also met the PAO (Public Affairs Officer) and our escorts. Our afternoon was filled with tours of every part of the ship, taking us up and down many ladders, through hatches, and up and down passageways every which way (blocking them with our dozen or so crew) such that we were grateful for the numerical and alphabetical grid coding marking our three dimensional position on the ship. We were escorted everywhere, which I think had less to do with security than it did with the fact that we would have most certainly gotten lost otherwise.

On the flight deck, we watched flight ops (operations) where F18 Super Hornets, CODs and E2Cs (these look like a COD with a satellite dish on top and are a type of spy plane) practice being catapulted off the ship upon take-off and then “catching the wire” upon landing.

The USS Bush carries up to 80 or so aircraft aboard. Up in the flight tower, we watched the amazing coordination between the different members of the flight crew both there and on deck, each dressed in a different color to mark their job (brown for maintenance, purple for fuel, and so on). We also visited the “Ready Room” right below the flight deck (a fact which you were not likely to forget) for the airwing that was currently on board, VFA-31, also known as the “Tomcatters”. We met a few of the pilots and learned that the Tomcatters have been around since 1935 and are one of the oldest flight commands in the Navy. We learned about the Super Hornets they were flying, which have only been around since 2000. They are 60’ long with a 45’ wing span (part of which is collapsible for storage in the hangar) go up to 1.8M, and carry 10,000 lbs of fuel. These are single seat planes, unlike the co-piloted F14s made famous in Top Gun, and the next generation of fighter planes is likely to be unmanned. We were then shown to our staterooms - I got the VP Suite (not as luxurious as it sounds), which I shared with a woman from the EPA. We had about five minutes to get settled before being escorted to dinner. A table was set for us in the Ward room where several officers joined us and we were served with military precision by an impressive staff. I was fortunate enough to sit next to the ship’s XO (Executive Officer) who was quite congenial and interested in my impressions of the ship’s operations. He presented us each with a coin from the USS Bush to take with us – it is a Navy tradition to collect these.

We had a full schedule after dinner, beginning with presentations by a Naval Oceanographer from Fleet Forces in Norfolk and by the Deputy Director of N45, describing the Navy’s consideration of marine mammals in its use of sonar and outlining the most pressing environmental priorities of the Navy, most of which focused on efficiency and energy reduction. Luckily, there was coffee provided, as well as the ubiquitous cookies (which there seemed to be plates of in every meeting room - we heard several people joke of a “5 cookie day” referring to a day with 5 meetings), because our night was still young. From there, we toured the on-board waste disposal facilities from the hazardous waste area to the compressor that turns hundreds of plastic bottles into a single giant hockey puck and the metal shredder that makes short work of aluminum cans. We were also taken down to see one of the ship’s four “screws” at the very bottom of the ship. The ship is powered by nuclear reactors (which can apparently operate for more than 20 years without refueling) which produce steam, which in turn powers the ship. Needless to say, it was quite toasty down in the bowels of the ship around the propeller shafts, which are some 40 feet long. Finally, we watched night flight ops from the vulture’s walk, outside above the flight deck, and then went up to the top of the flight tower to meet the “Air Boss” and “Mini-Boss” who run the operations. Despite the excitement of watching night flight ops, I felt myself beginning to sway with tiredness, as it was now approaching 1130pm. Finally, we were escorted back to our state rooms and, after a quick “military shower,” I headed for a peaceful night’s “sleep” right below the flight deck. I was actually grateful that they kept us up so late, as I was so tired that I actually did fall asleep (helped along by the handy earplugs).

At 5am in the morning, we got a knock on the door from one of our escorts telling us to get ourselves up and ready for a 6am breakfast followed by a helo (helicopter) ride out to the DDG Gonzalez, a Destroyer that was nearby. En route, we were able to see both the Bush and the Gonzalez clearly from the air. Once aboard the Gonzalez, we were greeted by the CO, one of the few female COs of a Destroyer. We learned that the Gonzalez was about to deploy to West Africa on an anti-piracy mission. We also learned about UAVs (unmanned aerial vehicles), which are remote-controlled helicopters equipped with video cameras that feed live video back to the ship and used to detect enemy ships. The CO also presented with a USS Gonzalez coin to add to our collection. Much of our time on the ship was spent learning about the Navy’s practices regarding marine mammals. We saw a marine mammal drill where the captain reduced the ship’s sonar strength in response to the siting of a marine mammal. They have some pretty handy tools for identification and for knowing the required practices for operations in various areas depending on the local marine mammal populations and their endangered status. One of the neatest parts of the trip was going down into the sonar room. This was the only part of our tour where we weren’t allowed to take any pictures. You really had the sense that this was where it all happened – myriad screens with displays in green and yellow and a line-up of sailors with headsets and microphones communicating positions to each other. Apparently, unlike in the old days of Russian nuclear subs, today, most of the enemy subs are diesel-electric and are small and very quiet, making them very difficult to detect. Whereas the bigger nuclear subs were detectible with passive sonar (basically just amplified listening) these new types require active sonar (sending out a signal) and this is what can cause impact to marine mammals. In accordance, the Navy has a very strict protocol to “step down” the sonar in the known presence of a mammal.

We returned to the USS Bush via the helicopter for lunch and a handful of remaining ship tours.

These included the anchor room (each link weighs 365 lbs!), which is typically used for many ceremonial functions, but today was being used for choir and band practice - as ships are not known for sound absorbent surfaces, it was nearly impossible to hear our tour guides with the music. Then, we saw the flight hangars, which double as the onboard gym and are filled with treadmills and stationary bicycles; then to the medical ward, where we saw the onboard operating room; then, to the enlisted berthing, where bunks were stacked three high and it was hard to imagine not clocking your head every time you got in and out. We also got to tour the galley, full of giant cooking cauldrons and the food storage area (though I wasn’t impressed with the amount of processed cheese and canned meat products, the level of organization was certainly impressive – the ship can carry supplies for 90 days at sea). We also got a tour of the media department, which produced all of the snazzy folders and information sheets we received as a part of our tour. And, we visited the ship store where we were able to purchase USS Bush paraphernalia for friends and family. Finally, we got a brief peek at the sunshine when we were invited to partake in a “Fob” (foreign object), walk on the flight deck. Every day, everyone aboard walks slowly across the deck in silence, save the rock music blaring over the loudspeaker, to check for every tiny piece of debris that might be on the flight deck and could pose a safety hazard to the planes. They also call this operation the “Skittle parade” because of all the different crews on the flight deck, each in their different colored turtlenecks.

We ended our tour in the Bush tribute room, where I was impressed to learn that George HW Bush was the youngest aviator in the Navy at age 18. His plane was shot down in Chichi Jima, Japan in WWII, but not before he completed the bombing mission. For his bravery, he was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. After four hours in a life raft, he was rescued by an American rescue submarine and all of this was remarkably captured on video. We returned to the Bush meeting room for a farewell from the CO where he presented each of us with a personalized set of souvenirs and asked if I would be a volunteer to show what we would received. We each were given a photo book ending with a picture of us sitting in the captain’s chair in the flight tower, which one of the ship’s media crew had taken the night before. We also received a certificate declaring us each an “Honorary Tailhooker,” having “experienced deceleration from 105 to 0 mph in two seconds and acceleration from 0 to 128 mph in three seconds” on board our C-2 Greyhound COD (something we were about to experience). I was honored to be personally presented with my certificate by the CO, who shook my hand as he read it aloud. Back on with the cranials and horsecollars, we said many thank yous and marched out to the COD. The catapult was quite an experience, like being lurched forward and frozen there for what seemed like minutes, though I know it was a matter of seconds. The flight crew has a little fun with the whole operation and just before you are slingshotted off the carrier, they yell “Here we go!” and flail their arms in the air. Partway through the flight, they invited anyone interested to ride in the cockpit, which I jumped at. The pilots were very friendly, but I quickly found out that my microphone didn’t work so we had to resort to a sign language. A short ride later, our crew arrived back at LP1 and went our separate ways, all looking forward to a good night’s rest after quite a busy trip.

After the whole experience, there were a few things that made big impressions on me: the professionalism of all the personnel we encountered and their ability to communicate what their jobs were(which was often quite complex) to an audience unfamiliar with military operations; how candid the Navy representatives were about their mission, which is military, not environmental, though they try to have the best possible environmental practices they can without impeding their operations; and how much I miss the camaraderie of the Navy and the variety of interesting people we encountered from all backgrounds and experiences during our time involved. All in all, it was a once in a lifetime experience.

Vernalized

2010-04-26T18:29:00.000-07:00

You know you’re in a good place when you are greeted with samples of mango and banana rum at the airport and you see a sea turtle from the ferry. We had never been to St. John and didn’t really know what to expect, but it turned out to be a tailor-made Chad and Sooz vacation spot. And, we were amply vernalized by the long winter in Maine, ready to spring forth into the soft warm tropical air upon first opportunity. For five glorious days, we repeated the same schedule: pack a backpack (snorkels, books, sunscreen, picnic supplies, camera), hike for a few hours to a good snorkel spot, snorkel, picnic on the beach, hike back, read on the porch of our cabin with a creatively concocted rum drink, cook something on the Coleman stove to enjoy on the porch while watching the colors fade, and maybe have another swim before heading to sleep (although that required a descent of over 100 steps down to the beach and back up as well).

Back to day 1 – we arrived at Maho Bay campground, which is an eco-resort on the north side of the island that was built on a series of elevated pathways to minimize the impact on the forest floor, giving it a Swiss Family Robinson feel. These pathways connect simple canvas-sided tent cabins that all share common bathhouses and a central pavilion which has a small store and a restaurant with nightly entertainment. The utopian aspect is enhanced by the fact that you can sign up for activities ranging from yoga to glass blowing to snorkel tours.

On the first day, we arrived in time for an evening snorkel at Little Maho Bay (at the base of the aforementioned many steps), sighting in a matter of an hour or so, a giant school of silvery Jacks, tube worms of all sizes and colors, an assortment of whimsically shaped corals and sponges, noisily munching parrot fish, a giant eel, and even an octopus! That night, we tried out the pavilion restaurant and were sadly disappointed by limp vegetables and four sad, overcooked mussels, hence the routine of campstove-cookery which we followed for the remainder of our stay. That night, we fell asleep to the chirping of tree frogs and gentle, and moist breezes blowing across out hardened, dry winter bodies. The morning’s soundtrack was a chorus of songbirds with a background of passing dappled showers. After breakfast of toast toasted in a pan on our campstove and real drip coffee through a makeshift cone attached to a measuring cup, we packed the daily backpack and headed out for the ruins of the Anaberg sugar plantation. Our list of wildlife grew with sightings of two deer and a mongoose along the trail before reaching cliff-side Frangipani trees filled with munching caterpillars. The sugar plantation was one of 25 or so on the island in the late 1700s, run by Dutch settlers with labor provided by African slaves, which produced molasses and rum. There is an impressive windmill on the plantation that was used to mash the cane and can be seen from much of the island. With the end of slavery in 1848 on the island and the refining of sugar beets rather than cane in other parts of the world, the sugar industry collapsed. There was a brief period of cattle ranching afterwards, leading to the further removal of nearly all the first growth forest on the island. In 1917, the US purchased the island from Denmark to prevent takeover by the Germans in WWI. Then, in 1956, Rockefeller purchased most of the island and turned it over to the US Parks Department so that it could be preserved.

There you have the brief history of St. John. Following the advice of a very helpful guide at the plantation, we walked up the path to the ruins of a villa of a former sugar baron named Murphy, passing donkeys on the trail. Yet another cliffside tree poked through the crumbling walls of the villa, with a pair of kestrels framed against the pale blue waters of Leinster Bay below. We trekked on to Brown Bay, where we encountered a stiff breeze, but found a sheltered stretch along the rocks to snorkel and saw our first sea turtle while in the water. Creeping conchs, listless sea cucumbers, and hidden flounders dotted the sandy sea floor. On our hike back, we added soldier crabs skittering around a fallen termite next to the wildlife tally, their crackling sounds giving them away despite the stolen snail shells they wore as disguises. We fit in one more snorkel of the day at big Maho Bay, which led Chad to remark, “Every part of the reef is like a little miracle.” Finally, a hummingbird greeted us upon our return on the walkway back to our cabin.

The next morning, we were greeted by a large iguana silhouetted in the tree in front of our porch. He was not at all phased by us and made himself a part of the view during our leisurely breakfast. That morning, our hike took us to Waterlemon Cay, which we learned was not Watermelon Cay. And, on the way, we saw giant iguana/dragon #2 of the day, rustling about on the forest floor. We snorkeled around the Cay and saw another amazing array of fish and reef critters, including a stingray with a remora tagging along for the ride and a brightly spotted eel hidden in a large coral head. We returned to the Anaberg ruins in time for lunch so that we could sample the “dumb bread” produced in the cook shack for the site’s work crew and available for the tourists to sample. It is a simple doughnut-like bread with coconut and powdered sugar on top and was delicious. We returned via Francis Bay for another snorkel, where we saw our first big leatherback turtle with two remora in tow and also a baby turtle munching eelgrass, as well as a lobster, a brittle star, a giant rainbow parrotfish floating above orange coral cups, a blue iridescent spotted flounder, pipe fish bobbing up and down next to purple gorgonians with flamingo tongue shellfish attached, a giant puffer fish, boxfish, and a five foot barracuda. We took it all in once back at Maho Bay while sipping Cruzan rum and Cokes from the deck and cooking burgers on the trusty camping stove. We attended an evening lecture at the pavilion on the ecology of the reefs in the area and then headed down the many stairs for an evening swim, marveling at the lights of St. Thomas in contrast to the darkness of the vastly protected parklands of St. John.

In the wee hours that night, we heard the scuttling of soldier crabs through the cracks in the floorboards of our cabin, their constant clickings adding to the night songs of the tropics. And, for our morning wildlife sighting, we saw fish jumping nearly five feet out of the water in the bay below. We snorkeled first thing in the morning at Little Maho with two young green sea turtles, one of which let us look him right in the eye with millions of tiny silversides streaming through the water and sparkling in the morning sun. Among the other treasures were a corkscrew anemone (with little white corkscrew markings twisting up each tentacle), fingerlike soft corals and frilled gorgonians, trunkfish, puffers, featherduster worms, tangs, angelfish, wrasse, and gobies, just for a snapshot. I really wish I had pictures of these fantastic plants and animals! After snorkeling, we picked up a rental car for the last couple of days and headed to Vie’s Snack Shack on the east end of the island for recommended garlic chicken and Johnny cakes drizzled with honey, both of which were worth the trip. On the way there, we were able to see more of the island than previously covered on foot, including twisty roads with peeks of hidden rocky bays reminiscent of Sardinia – particularly the narrow, winding roads, and the goat crossings. That afternoon, we hiked out the Reef Bay Trail to another abandoned sugar mill, passing iguanas, chickens, mongoose and deer along the way and smelling the sweet scents of Bay Rum trees. We took a side trip on the Petroglyph trail to see the paintings of the Taino Indians on the rocks reflected in a small pool beneath a completely dry waterfall. These are the same native group that we saw evidence of on our trip to Puerto Rico. The reef at Reef Bay was the first we’d seen in St. John that was in poor shape – covered in sediment and plant growth with murky waters that were hard to see through while snorkeling. Even more eery through the cloudy water was a shark, which Chad claims was six feet long (though I never actually saw it). We attempted a picnic upon return, but the beach was hopping with sand fleas and hurried us on our way. We headed back to Maho Bay for our last night on the porch with ginger beer Dark and Stormies followed by a final night’s swim.

We were sent off from Maho by a chirping bananaquit on the porch amongst gently cooing doves and a brown-throated sparrow, which hopped right onto the banana peel on our breakfast table. We spent the last night of our trip at Concordia Camps, which is the sister resort to Maho Bay. We had first read about Maho Bay because the owner is currently in a battle with the land owner to maintain the lease on the land. During this battle, he bought a piece of land on the dry southern side of the island on the site of a former cotton plantation and built another resort that he wholly owns. From Concordia Camps, we hiked out to Ram’s Head for beautiful views from steeply descending cliffs, a perfect spot to see a turtle and a ray from above. The terrain was completely different and very reminiscent of San Diego and Baja, Mexico – prickly pears, tiny wildflowers and scrubby desert vegetation and spicy scents. We passed a fault line at the neck of the head, beyond which the rocks were dark and cobbly rather than the porous coral, which enhanced the different feel of this part of the island. Quite parched from the hike, we eagerly donned masks and snorkels and spent an immeasurable amount of time exploring a small islet in the middle of Salt Pond Bay, which had the brightest, most varied array of corals and critters we’d seen so far. When we finally extracted ourselves from the water, we picnicked at a shady table beneath a giant mangrove cuckoo, its spotted tail hanging down over the branch above, and a flitting hummingbird, which barely slowed long enough for us to identify it. On the way back, we crossed the neck over the salt pond to Drunk Bay to see the whimsically arranged rock/coral/coconut shell people displayed on the rocks and then poked our way along the shore to perhaps the gem of the trip – an empty beach with two chairs in the shade of a homemade shanty of sorts, branches woven together by an old fishing net, where we read for hours punctuated by dips into the water. Not knowing exactly how we’d make our way home and hoping we wouldn’t have to scramble over the rocks from whence we’d come, we happily discovered that we were just below the foot of a road that led directly back to Concordia Camps. We’d decided to splurge for our last night and get a place with actual walls and running water – a nice place to rest and clean up before our trip home. After settling in and cleaning up, we enjoyed our final rum concoction - an invented coconut milk and grapefruit soda mixture, which was very refreshing given the dry heat of the day. Our other splurge was a dinner out in Coral Bay, where we were instructed to try the Guavaberry martini (guavas have berries?) and were not disappointed.

And, finally, the last morning – we had to get in the water one more time and were not disappointed. We were bid farewell by a sea turtle, a spiny lobster, and a giant silver grouper. A quick rainshower subsided to provide a full rainbow across the bay, which we viewed upon surfacing. We then caught the ferry from Cruz Bay, wading along the shore among silver tarpon while waiting for our boat, and then headed to Charlotte Amalie in St. Thomas, catching views of yachts practicing for the upcoming Rolex Regatta along the way.

And that was it – one bottle of blackstrap and one bottle of guava berry rum purchased as souvenirs, and then we were whisked back to Boston, arriving as readily identifiable tourists in flip flops and with slightly toasted skin. We returned solar charged, wondering how long we could hold onto the warmth before it ran out of juice and if it could last until it finally would get warm in Maine. At least we timed our trip so that we returned after the end of daylight savings and also after the first crocus bloomed, daffodils were opening and buds had emerged on the forsythia bushes. This spring has been quite anomalous, in fact, and has come much earlier, so we were not thrust back into the wet, chilly muck that is usually mud season in Maine – and were grateful for it. Now, we watch daily the progression of new green shoots, surprised every day by previously unknown plants in the yard, this being our first spring on Federal St. I will close with a favorite quote of my alma mater’s namesake, John Burroughs, “Nature is always new in the spring and lucky are we if it finds new also.”

On Staying Put, with Help from Eliot and Einstein

2010-01-31T18:27:00.000-08:00

We have lived in Brunswick now for four months and it is the first place I’ve lived, since leaving 6325 Waterman Ave, where I grew up, where I haven’t rushed to put up every picture and to have each piece of furniture come to its resting place. And, it feels good. There are rugs on the floors that are mismatched in both color and size. Upstairs, there is still a completely theme-less room with an odd assemblage of a leftover desk and file cabinets from my old office, my college shipping locker, and a Nordic track (Chad’s new vehicle to carry him through the dark, icy days of New England winter). And, there are largely unpacked boxes in the basement, attic and garage (ah, the joys of extra space), and that’s okay because we are pacing ourselves. It’s as if we bought a house for our future selves and moved in early, so we aren’t in any rush because we have a couple of bonus, free years just to enjoy it. Maybe it is that the project possibilities are too numerous to tackle them all immediately, so we are prevented from trying. But, I think it has something to do with a soft, descending sense of permanency that has gently dampened the oft-frenetic move-in phase much like the thick blanket of white snow nestled around our house. For the first time in going on seven years of marriage, we have hopes of staying in one spot for longer than our current year and a half record.

I have no complaints about the number of dwellings (this is our 6th) that we have inhabited thus far, moving up and down the coast of Maine, across the country to San Diego, across the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, and back again. They have all been wonderful places to live. And, while you may think that being back in Maine in January would be a disappointment after sunny bougainvillea-filled Mediterranean climes, we actually like it better now because we learned that, while the grass really is greener there, we prefer the conifers. Also, in reality, January in San Diego is rainy and cool, and Sardinia is even more so but with the added brutal Maestrale wind.

To Eliot, as in T.S. – “We shall not cease from exploration/And the end of all our exploring/ Will be to arrive where we started/ And know the place for the first time...” (The Four Quartets). While Maine isn’t actually home to either of us individually, i.e., we are not “Mainers” and never will be since we weren’t born here, it is our home as a pair, as this is where we met. I should mention that when I say we arrived where we started, I mean that we now live a block and a half from Bowdoin, where we both went to school, a few blocks more to the parking lot where we first met, and across the street from Chad’s Senior year apartment where he wooed me with wonderful home-cooked meals and serenaded me on guitar. We walk our dog, Manny, past my freshman dorm nearly every morning and by the chapel where I played my Senior year piano concert. While this all may seem a little too familiar, there has been enough time and experience between it’s really not strange. Even Chad’s job here connects us back to our first meeting, as the company he now works for, Apogee, runs outdoor trips for students, much like those we led when we first met. Although Brunswick is obviously familiar, I now feel like I know it for the first time, as Eliot wrote, because I have a context for it.

Now, for Einstein – I say returning “home”, but, as I said, we are not Mainers at all. So, home is a relative term. And, I am writing about a sense of permanency after a mere four months in one locale, where I really have spent more like two and a half of the last four months here, as much of it has been spent traveling (including this moment, as I am currently flying over New York). So, the staying put part is relative as well. Maybe I should call it nesting, instead of staying put. Some twelve years after finding an emotional nest in each other, we’re finally establishing a physical one – a jumping off point for adventures which we hope will continue no matter how nested we get here, and a place to return to from those adventures. Nevertheless, our house already feels like home. This was particularly true after returning from holiday travels on a half cross-country road trip with my mom and Manny. There is something about returning to a new place for the first time, which makes it finally feel like home, and the slower pace of driving across helped me to notice this. Part of the reason Chad and I had driven out to St. Louis was to drive was to bring Manny with us, but the other reason was to bring my mom and a few choice family items, which have been sitting in boxes in my room for several years, back to Maine. My mom described our trip as tracing my songline from home to Maine. Songlines, the title of a book by travel writer Bruce Chatwin, are Aboriginal dreaming tracks. They are paths across the land, which mark a route which is recorded in song, such that you can navigate across the land by repeating the words of the songs. I pictured not a song, necessarily, but more of an imaginary thread which I pulled across with me as we drove east, drawing a tighter, stronger connection between my two homes.

Enhancing this connection are the many parallels between our new house and my parents’ house in St. Louis. My parents bought their house just after my dad had started a new job, and they were a little nervous about buying a big house at that stage in life, just as we bought this house just after Chad started a new job and it is a little much for us at the moment. They moved in with no furniture and tackled projects slowly over time (some which are still in progress 35+ years later), just as we did and are. There are also uncanny physical coincidences like the carpeted red staircase with a landing midway up that has a large paned glass window, and our living rooms which are nearly identical in layout and both even share a red wall. We noticed several more of these similarities when my dad visited in the fall. Although, sadly for him, we weren’t quite as nested them and didn’t yet have a bed or heat.

Having my mom visit helped me to extend previously shallow roots a little deeper and broader. Making the most of my her expertise and interest, we spent much of her visit researching the history of our house, which we’d heard had been designed by the John Calvin Stevens (1855-1940), a fairly well known architect in New England. One tidbit of interesting coincidence is that John Calvin Stevens shares the same birthday, October, 8th, as my dad, who is also an architect. After moving in, a neighbor mentioned that our house had been designed by Stevens. A little research led us to a magazine article from 1991 in the Bowdoin alumni magazine, which we tracked down at the library. The article confirmed this, but we were still skeptical, so my mom and I continued to dig. Along the way, we discovered various pieces of Brunswick, Bowdoin, and literary history. We found old pictures of our street, Federal Street, with the house where Harriet Beecher Stowe lived while writing Uncle Tom’s Cabin, those where Nathaniel Hawthorne and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow lived as students at Bowdoin, and others belonging to prominent Bowdoin professors. We learned that William Albion Moody, the first owner of our house, was born in 1860 in Kennebunkport, Maine, where Chad’s family has roots, and where we were married. We found a picture of him as a small boy in the online Maine historical archives (mainememory.net). He was a Bowdoin Phi Beta Kappa graduate of 1882 and then a math professor at Bowdoin for 42 years. At a cocktail party at our neighbor’s house, we met a math professor who mentioned a sign above “Buck” Moody’s office which read, “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here” from Dante’s Inferno. So, my mom and I went on a hunt in the basements of both Adams Hall (famed for its storage of cadavers back when it housed the medical school) and Searles, but to no avail. Moody also served as acting President of the college for six months and was the treasurer of the Brunswick Public Library Association. He apparently loved to walk the woods around Bowdoin and to canoe. Moody bought the land from the Bryants next door in 1890 and lived in the house until he died. He lived the last fifteen years alone, after his wife, Jennie L, had passed away. Apparently, he slipped on the ice on Federal Street, broke his hip, and died while in the hospital in 1947 at age 87. He left $20K to Bowdoin anonymously upon his death.

After hunting in the archives of the local historical society, the special collections at Bowdoin’s library (where Chad worked as a student), the Brunswick town hall, and the Maine History Museum in Portland, turning up no record of Moody’s commission of Stevens, we decided to hunt down the author of the article from the Bowdoin alumni magazine. We managed to find out her phone number, email, and address (and we may have even driven by her house late one chilly evening on the way home from dinner). While all of this didn’t solve the puzzle, it did provide a neat way to connect to the history up here and we learned a lot of other interesting tidbits and met interesting people along the way. And, Julia and I do have a tea date next week. . . We also accumulated quite a pile of materials – photocopies, books, old maps and photographs, and my mom teased me that, soon, word was going to get out that I was the neighborhood expert and they would start adding to my collection, which would grow and grow and take over my nice, spacious historic house (a plight she is familiar with). Oh, how I never thought I’d have any interest in historical research after being inundated by it as a child, but now I do somehow. I have the urge to search for roots here in my new home, and Brunswick is a particularly rich place to connect to. I have lately found myself researching old stories in my family as well – recording stories of my grandparents and my parents. I have realized how much there is to be learned from the past and how good it feels to connect to it. It gives me a frame to weave myself into rather than starting from scratch.

So, I am hoping that we’ll stick around here, put down a few roots and weave ourselves in; and that we'll strike out on adventures more confidently from our newly rooted home base.

“I love my job” – a week in Puerto Rico

2009-11-10T18:16:00.000-08:00

I wonder how many times Chad said this over the course of the week - it certainly beats sitting on the 9th floor of an office tower all day. We went down to Puerto Rico to scout a trip for Apogee Adventures, the company Chad now helps run, which takes junior high and high school students on cycling, hiking, and service trips around the US. Interested in expanding the service aspect of the trips, Chad concocted the idea of a trip to Puerto Rico and we got to be the lucky ones to scout it. On the day we left, it snowed in Boston, which made our Caribbean sojourn all the more sweet. We went from 30F to 30C in a matter of four hours.

I love how modern transportation can speed you forward or backward through the seasons - perhaps this is the secret to controlling time. Immediately upon stepping out into the soft, Caribbean air, we realized that we’d packed the wrong clothes, not believing that it could possibly be so warm. We drove past the crashing surf of Ocean Park to our guest house, “Coqui del Mar,” named after the state animal, the tree frog, whose enchantingly gentle chirps we heard out the gloriously fully rolled down windows of our rental car. After recently having watched an episode of Andrew Zimmern’s “Bizarre Foods” set in Puerto Rico, we were curious to try the local staple, “mofongo,” mashed plantains mixed with crispy bits of fried pork served in a heaping scoop. While we found the sought-after mofongo, it turned out to be quite dry and was served with “chicharones,” essentially just fried chicken. Later, when I had the leftovers from this quite heavy meal, I discovered that it was much improved with a squeeze of fresh orange juice. But, it seemed to be customary to serve dishes with no sauces and certainly nothing fresh, much to our dismay. We bought the oranges at a local grocery store to compensate for this.

For breakfast the next morning, we tried the traditional “mallorca.” a swirl of doughy bread covered in powdered sugar. After ordering ours plain, we looked around and realized we should have taken a lesson from the locals and had it toasted with ham and cheese. We did, however, greatly enjoy the espresso con leche, which was strong and sweet and revved us p for our long drive to the El Yunque Rainforest. Puerto Rico is a funny place where you feel almost like you’re in the US - the highway signs are all shaped the same and there are loads of American fast food chains lining the roads (more Burger Kings per mile than I’ve ever seen, and also an odd assortment of chains that have largely gone out of business in the continental US and seemed temporally out of place). But, everything is in Spanish. Spanish is just similar enough to Italian to get us into trouble but not similar enough to really be helpful, at least in speaking (understanding and reading, in particular, were actually easier for the similarities). We drove up into El Yunque through a viney, wet forest with wonderful chirping and tweeting sounds echoing through the trees, and had a fantastic meeting with the rangers, one of whom has a daughter who lives in Lincoln, Maine, of all places. They are very excited to have the Apogee students volunteer with them and were incredibly helpful in sketching out the details of a project for them. Eager to explore the rainforest, we headed off for a short hike to La Mina waterfall. Along the way, we saw delicately perched lizards, giant snails, and wild pink impatiens on the forest floor, before descending to the dramatic falls, the pool at the bottom of which was filled with gleeful swimmers. On the way out, we stopped at the visitor’s center, where we were surprised to find out that the park had been protected since the Spanish rule, for over 200 years, before becoming a national US park in the 1970s. It is now the only rainforest in the US National Park system.

In great need of both lunch and our first swim, we stopped at Loquillo Beach. Here, we had heard about the “chioscos,” a row of stalls on the beach which sell an array of local snack foods. We settled on one of the few open stands (as it was a Monday and most of them open only on the weekends) where I had a “bacalaito,” a fried salt cod fritter (though I struggled to find the fish among the batter), and Chad had a long, skinny taquito stuffed with shrimp. The highlight by far was the “coco frijo,” fresh, cold coconut, cut open right in front of us. We slurped it down, parched from the heat, and quickly ordered another. All told, we couldn’t complain – lunch was a mere $7 for the both of us, a welcome relief after last night’s dinner of overpriced fried chicken. And we were happy to have something fresh and local. We found out, to our surprise that coconuts were just about it. Not much is grown on the island so that 90% of the food consumed there is imported, which seems strange for a place where you would expect fruit to be dangling deliciously from every tree and for sale at every corner. And then . . . we submerged in the deliciously warm sea, gently easing into the water through a continuum of temperature that is rare and delicious in striking contrast to the frenetic, gutsy plunge into Maine’s waters, which are crisp even at their warmest point. The water was soft and salty, even a little cloudy in its viscous jade green color. We finally tore ourselves away from the beach in order to return to San Juan in time for a personal tour of the city by a friend of a friend, who we had fortunately been put in touch with before coming down. It’s amazing what a local can show you that make a place come alive and which you wouldn’t find on your own. We drove to a small stretch of beach called “Pinones” up the coast where palm-thatched beach shacks housed simple waterfront bars with small tables and stools set out under the shade of their porch where we sampled the cool, refreshing local beer, Medalles. Then, we took a drive through new San Juan into the fortressed city of Viejo San Juan, home of the oldest settlement in the US (founded by Juan Ponce de León in 1508, and now a UNESCO world heritage site), with its impressive 4-foot thick ramparts. After zipping along the cobble-stoned streets, which were fairly quiet as there were no cruise ships in town that night, our gracious tour guide asked us if we were in the mood for some good, simple Puerto Rican food. We certainly were, not having eaten much we’d enjoyed since our arrival. He took us to a place called “Bebo’s,” something akin to the “Denny’s” of Puerto Rico - a little short on atmosphere, but with a great array of local specialties. We started out with pig stomach soup (mondongo) which was actually very good, and brought back memories of eating pig stomach in Sardinia). Chad then had stewed goat, which was also delicious, and I took another stab at salt cod, this time sautéed, not fried, and served with scrambled egg and vegetables. It was delicious. Over dinner, we got the lowdown on the troubles within the island’s government and the high rate of poverty and unemployment, particularly since the economic collapse.

The next day, Chad was off to Cabo Rojo, on the southwest coast, to meet with the staff at the Wildlife Refuge there, in hopes of organizing another volunteer project. I stayed behind to catch up on some work done. Though I often gripe about the challenges and obligations of constant communication, this is one of the most magnificent benefits. My courtyard “office” was just fine and my lunch break walk to the beach wasn’t bad either. I finished up in time for an afternoon walk, or trek, as it turned out, from Ocean Park to Old San Juan. I walked from the new part of the city, peppered with high rise hotels, Chinese restaurants, and convenience stores, along a stretch of beach where surfers rode on sunset-colored waves into the fortress of the old city. Guarding the entrance to the city’s harbor is the Fort San Felipe del Morro which, by the time I got there, was illuminated under a starry sky. Finally, I reached the Plaza Colon, where I slaked my parched throat with a local cane soda while I waited for Chad to join me for dinner at the Café Puerto Rico. It’s amazing how the slower pace of walking allows you to notice things that are otherwise a blur out a car window such as the one I looked out of last night on our tour. We’d finally hit our stride with food after the first few flops of meals – Chad had an eggplant relleno stuffed with chicken, and I had shrimp simmered in garlic sauce accompanied by plantain fries (not to be confused with the sweeter, crisper fried plantains), which made us appreciate fries made from potatoes. And, we sampled the local rum in a mojito and a spiced rum punch. Puerto Rico is one of the major rum producers in the world. In fact, much of the island was once covered in sugar cane plantations. Now, the major producer is the Bacardi Distillery, which you can take tours of right from the cruise ship terminal.

The next morning, we headed to the town of Fajardo, on the east coast of the island, to head out for the island of Vieques, best known as a former bombing range for the US Navy. Since the Navy stopped their exercises there in 2003, most of the island has been designated as a nature preserve and the Navy is slowly disarming the area for recreational use. But, currently much of it is off-limits. On the boat trip out to Vieques, we passed several grounded boats which looked like they’d been there for quite awhile and weren’t going anywhere soon. In fact, many things on the island were that way and reminded us of places in Mexico where there were an amazing number of unfinished buildings that now housed trees and lizards. On the water, we watched diving pelicans and brightly colored frigate birds - and even a sea turtle, which poked its head up alongside the ferry. We passed Culebra, which has the only Marine Protected Area in Puerto Rico – surprising for the extent of the coral reef and the tourism there. On the other side of the island, there are apparently several large experimental aquaculture pens, which I knew about from my nerdy ocean science geek research, but we didn’t see these on our trip.

Upon arrival, we packed into a taxi from the town of Isabel II, where we landed, to Esperanza, on the opposite side of the island, accompanied by half a dozen other people in a stuffy van with no air conditioning. We drove past the Malecon, the beachside drag, up to the Alta Vista, a slightly shabby hotel run by one of the town’s many ex-pats. Once checked in there, we walked down to town for a quick sandwich at Bellybuttons café, decorated with innumerable pictures of the bellybuttons of previous clientele, before heading to Sun Bay for a swim, wanting to finally get in the Caribbean Sea (having been on the Atlantic side until now) and to check out a potential camping spot for Apogee. We returned for an afternoon meeting at the Historic Conservation Trust, where we hoped to arrange another volunteer project. The facility there is a magical place with a small museum and aquarium filled with myriad natural and cultural objects from the island. I could have stayed awhile looking at all the collections, but we wanted to get in an evening snorkel before it got dark. We swam out along the pier, getting a preview of the marvelous Caribbean creatures that lived there. Later, for dinner, we ventured down the road a ways to try to find the “Mexi-Rican” restaurant we’d heard about, but were soon in the pitch black with no likely candidate in sight, and decided instead to return to town to Duffy’s, just about the only game in town. Chad tried the conch chowder and an avocado salad, and I sampled crab cakes – both accompanied by more tropical punches (mine made from Passoa, a passion fruit liquor), and a lime, coconut drink for desert. While at the bar, we met Abe, the owner of one of the companies on the island who gave tours of the biolumiscent bay. He looked like a true pirate with a black beard, beady eyes, and a bandana tied around his hair. When we mentioned we were looking for a company to take a dozen students to the bay, he offered us a free tour the next night – another perk of scouting.

The next morning, we enjoyed breakfast on the roof of our hotel, looking out over the island, which had a decidedly more country feel than the mainland and seemed more authentically Caribbean. Eager to get into the water and to do some exploring, we rented a kayak, yet again using our scouting skills to garner a good rate for the day. We paddled out from the Malecon past what the locals called “the island,” edged with rugged cliffs which plunge down into the warm waters, to Mezza Luna Bay for some snorkeling and a picnic on the beach. Anticipating that the reef might be sorry shape, I was surprised to see such healthy corals, polyps waving in the water next to purple and yellow sea fans and vase sponges with a spectacular array of fish from tiny bright blue spotted fish to elegant yellow pipe fish hovering next to spiral Christmas tree worms. Spiny lobsters hid out under brain corals and glass shrimp took cover in soft, iridescent anemones, neighbored by giant, spiky black sea urchins. Over an hour later, finally made aware of the time by growing hunger, we headed in to the beach. The temperature was heavenly. We stopped two more times to snorkel on the way back, passing by another turtle periscoping its neck above the surface, which was scattered by silvery jumping fish, and herons flying overhead.
Many hours later, we returned to the Alta Vista for cocktails on the roof deck at sunset- rum and Coke we’d bought from the local store and key limes I’d sneakily acquired from a tree in one of the yards along the road. Then, we were off for our tour of Bio Bay. The beginning of the tour was literally a little rough, bumping down a rugged road in the dark in the back of a truck we weren’t sure was ever going to arrive to pick us up in the first place. But, once out there, it was one of the coolest sights we’ve ever seen. I had seen bioluminescence before – in Maine and even in Australia, but this was a different deal. The bay here has one of the highest concentrations of the dinoflagellates in the world. These are the tiny plankton that flash their lights when disturbed. The bay here is exceptionally salty and is surrounded by a barrier of mangroves, which provide nutrients for the plankton and make the water rich and silty. We paddled out into the center of the bay and then hopped out of our boats for a snorkel. It was like swimming through a star tunnel – like you were Superman flying through space, sparkles streaming along your body as you slowly swam through the water. Quick repeated movements created cloudy blue flashes of light. We had mixed feelings about being able to so intimately experience this, as we were one of close to a hundred swimmers in the bay that night alone. At the end of the day, we calculated we’d been under the water for over four hours and paddled at least as many – the mark of a good day. For this reason, we have few pictures from Vieques.

On our last day in Puerto Rico, we woke up early to get in one more snorkel around the pier, this time in daylight. There were dozens of silver needle fish shining in the morning sun and arrays of jacks mixed with tiny colorful fish hanging out in the trash reefs underneath the pier. Once back on the mainland, we heard about a giant oil tank fire just outside of San Juan and immediately saw this along our drive. It was quite dramatic, the black plume rising above the city. Then, after an impressive line-up of a taxi, a boat, a car, a plane and a bus, we arrived back in New Castle just after midnight, limp from a long day of travel. Just to properly welcome us back from the tropics, the weather gods sent along a fall thunderstorm. Though it was chilly, the rain slicked the newly-turned leaves and blackened the tree trunks, making the colors brightly shine against the gray sky.

Several weeks later now, the fall season is beginning to give way to more wintry weather, with most of the leaves having dropped (many into our yard, much to the pain of Chad’s now-aching limbs) and the potted impatiens on our deck, cousins of the wild variety that grow on the rainforest floor in El Yunque, are now but shriveled stalks. While we had a very successful scouting trip and are hoping to fill Apogee’s first Caribbean service trip this coming summer, there just might be a need to nail down critical details come February, when we’re buried in snow up here.

The Great Western Excursion - CO to CA

2009-10-26T12:05:00.001-07:00

I am writing so far after this trip that I am now forced to rely on scrawled notes taken during and shortly thereafter, which tell a slightly different story, but an adventure worth recording nonetheless.

Sometime back in late August, we left a gorgeous summer in Maine after the annual Little/Royce family visit and headed West for two weddings tied together by a week of travel. We started out in Denver and had a couple of days to play with before I had to report for bridesmaidsly duties and a college reunion of sorts at the Powderhorn Resort, near Grand Junction, for wedding number one - Meredith and Brett. Leaving the airport, we sang loudly to “Rocky Mountain High” as we sped onwards towards Breckenridge, our first night’s destination. Breckenridge is a charming ski town which Chad remembered from childhood ski trips, but it was my first visit. The town was filled with brightly colored flowers against the crisp blue sky and chilly mountain air. We stayed at a small B&B on the river, which was housed in an old barn and retained some of the rustic details – we stayed in “stall” number 4. After dinner, and a soak in the riverside hot tub, we stumbled our way to bed, feeling the effects of the reduced oxygen at 9,000 feet.

In the morning, we headed to Vail to visit Chad’s cousin and her boyfriend. I was curious to finally see the infamous mountain where my sister had broken her leg in her early post-collegiate days. We had a beautiful walk along the stream through town, though we were struck by the number of dead pine trees along the way, which had recently been devastated by the pine bark beetle. After a few hours’ drive, we descended into a faded, speckled landscape to the Powerderhorn ski resort. We met up with old friends and had a quick rehearsal in the hot afternoon sun before heading to the rehearsal dinner at a house in the nearby hills. The expansive sunset views from there were fantastic, as was the barbeque and the chance to catch up with old friends.

The next day, the girls were busy with wedding preparations, so the boys went off on a Frisbee golf adventure, which took them all through the mountains around the resort. Alice and I managed to get in an early morning hike up the mountain before the events began, and returned to watch marmots playing on the lawn as we breakfasted on the deck. We spent the rest of the day learning to make bouquets (on-the-job training) and teasing Meredith as we tried out various contraptions in her hair. The boys returned just in time to help decorate the hillside for the ceremony. It was a beautiful sight of Mer and all went smoothly, including the incorporation of a few other critters - Bonnie, the dog, as ring-bearer and a pesky chipmunk that was determined to be in our pictures. Afterwards, we feasted, gave and listened to wonderful toasts, and danced up a storm until the wee hours. It was a grand party!

In the morning, we rounded up the crew and headed up to Grand Mesa for a hike amidst the many crystal clear lakes. The contrast with the dusty landscape below was astounding. After a cozy lunch at a lakeside lodge, which looked strangely familiar, we were off to Grand Junction to drop Rob off at the airport. I remembered arriving there 16 years ago for my Outward Bound trip in the San Juan mountains and I also realized that the lodge where we had lunch on the Mesa seemed familiar because I had visited it with my parents after my trip. From there, we headed to Fruita to stay with Mer and Brett for a few days, arriving just in time to accompany them on an evening walk in the McInnis Canyons with their crew of dogs. Along the way, we spotted a brightly colored collared lizard as well as a jack rabbit, much to the dogs’ delight.

We left Mer and Brett early the next morning with Alice to venture to Arches National Park. This was one of the strangest landscapes I’ve encountered – whimsical formations and colors like intense sunsets. Unfortunately, the contrast of colors was somewhat obscured due to recent wildfires, so we missed the stark reds against blues for our photographs. I read a brochure about the park in an attempt to understand the geology of how these arches were formed, coming away with a story that included an ancient ocean, wind, and lots of erosion over a long, long time. This is why I studied biology and not geology. I wondered whether Maine’s lush coastal ‘scape would someday look like this and if humans would be around to see it. We hiked the Devil’s Garden loop, passing by an array of arches along the way - Sand Dune , Broken, Skyline , Pine Tree, Tunnel, Private, Navajo, Partition, Landscape, and Double OArches, cluminating with Dark Angel monument at the end of the loop - and returned to meet up with Heather and Brenden for a picnic lunch. Due to lack of a better place and there being no shade in sight anywhere, we spread out our lunch on the sidewalk, and then walked out to the famous Delicate Arch, where Brenden practiced his echoing skills off the canyon walls. We returned to Fruita for our last night with Mer and Brett before they headed off for their honeymoon birding extravaganza in Australia.

We had not yet visited the Colorado National Monument, which was just about out Mer and Brett’s backyard, so we spent out last morning there exploring there with Alice before she had to fly home. The ridge we chose for our hike supposedly had expansive views all the way out to the San Juans, but we felt more like we were in the Smokey Mountains than in Colorado, due to the bluish haze that covered everything and obscured our views. After many miles of hiking, we emerged back on the park road, where we had the best views of the day. By then, though, we were a little weary of walking, so I tried my hand at hitchhiking and made friends with a very nice couple who drove me back to the visitor’s center to retrieve our car.

We said goodbye to Alice and were off on the next leg, heading across Highway 40 towards Steamboat Springs. We had chosen a scenic set of roads, which neither of us had been on before, and it was absolutely worth the extra time. Both the natural and cultural scenery were fascinating – driving through coal country past rickety old mines and miners’ shacks and new power plants, and then spotting an array of sheep, cows, llama, white-tail deer, elk, magpies, and antelope along the roadside. We noticed, in the small towns we passed through, that the common art form was sculpture - mostly twisted, angular metal pieces, which matched the strength and carved nature of the land in much the same way that watercolor seems to be the perfect medium for the gentle landscape of a place like Door County, Wisconsin, where I visited this summer with my family.

In Steamboat Springs, we stayed at a small inn at the edge of town. In the morning, the owners cooked up a delicious breakfast in their country kitchen and told us about the construction of their inn from lodgepole pines, which had been killed by the bark beetle. They pointed out the blue streaks in the wood, which were the result of a blue fungus that grows in the tiny tubes that the pine beetles bore inside the tree trunks. Apparently, there is a nearby peak called Mount Baldy, which is no longer bald, but must have been denuded by the beetle many years ago when it took its name. Who knows what the forests around here will look like 20 years from now. They also told us about the fantastic hot springs, but we tried not to listen too closely, as we didn’t have enough time to visit them before heading to our next destination, Rocky Mountain National Park, a first for both of us. Along the road, hawks and eagles soared overhead and we passed pelicans floating on Grand Lake, another reminder of an ancient inland sea. Once in the park, we climbed up and up though Aspens turning from green to gold, to reach the Alpine meadow, where bull elk and big horn sheep dotted the rugged slope and lakes lay nestled beneath jagged peaks. A little way down the trail we had chosen for our day’s hike, we smelled smoke and noticed a nearby controlled burn. We thought we’d finally gotten away from the fires, but here we were, in them again. We passed the firemen keeping watch, leaning against a log with their bright orange water packs at their feet, the spicey scents of the fire burning our nostrils. At the top of the trail, we had a lovely view down over a valley with a small winding, silvery stream, and big magpies picturesquely sitting in a dead tree, watching with us. To complete the natural experience, we came upon a mule deer on our way out, who was so unphased by our presence that we questioned whether he was put their by the park service for the tourists .

Next destination - Boulder, Colorado. This is where Chad got his collegiate start and where I had never been. We stayed at the Colorado Chatauqua, which is a kind of community education center that was founded in 1898 as a summer retreat for training Sunday school teachers and which evolved to include other summer educational, cultural, and recreational programs. There were many of these centers around the coutnry, but only a few survive now, including this one. The complext contains a cluster of cabins with a main dining lodge and function hall for gatherings, and it is now open to the public, though some of the cottages are privately owned. We had a fantastic dinner that night on the porch of the restaurant (a memorable burger for me, which is saying a lot), and followed it with a moonlit walk beneath the iconic Flatiron mountains - flashes of light from nearby thunderstorms illuminating their faces.

In the morning, we hiked up the hillside to the amphitheater, a rocky outcropping used by climbers, which was a little steeper than we’d anticipated, given our sore legs from the many miles hiked in the previous days. And, in the afternoon, we toured the UC Boulder campus, walking past Chad’s freshman dorm, and picnicking by the apartment where he lived David one summer. Then, we were off to Denver to return our trusty, now dusty, rental car to the airport and to conclude the Colorado segment of our trip.

Part two – San Francisco, California
We flew into San Francisco over a strange brightly colored quilt of oranges, reds and greens just outside the bay. We later found out that these are salt ponds, which are part of a large estuarine restoration project. That evening, we made our way into the city and enjoyed a delicious dinner at La Mediterrinee, just down the hill from Jan’s house, followed by a stop at a neighborhood favorite, BiRite Creamery, for ice cream.

The next day was a work day for Jan, so we set out on our own to explore the city. We took the trolley to the beach along Judah, past the house where I stayed one summer in college, walked past the edge of Golden Gate Park, where I had interned at the California Academy of Sciences, by the Cliff House, and out to Lands End along the coastal trail. There were beautiful flowers and wild fennel and mulberries along the way. At the precipice at Point Lobos, we found one of the most amazing picnic spots we’ve ever been to - complete with dolphins and sea lions playing, pelicans diving and striking views of the Golden Gate bridge . We actually walked right up to the base of the bridge, where we tried waiting for a bus, but eventually gave up and continued on foot. We kept walking and walking, all in pursuit of a Ghiradelli’s chocolate soda. When we finally arrived, our legs about to give out and our throats parched, it was all worth it. Then, we took a bus all the way back and watched the fog roll in and the sunset colors filter through it after a remarkably clear day. The evening concluded with a great dinner party at Jan’s house.

The next morning, hoping for an equally sunny day, we drove out to Muir Beach with Jan and her boyfriend, Peter. Trail PIC Although we were socked in with fog, the hike was lovely and filled with an array of wildflowers, which Chad, the nature photographer, captured on film. Today, the ending point of our hike, rather than a chocolate soda, was a small English pub on the other side of the beach. We arrived chilled and quite hungry only to find a sign stating that they were closed for an event! But, Peter did some sleuthing and, it turned out, we were just early enough to sneak in before the party for some hot soup and cold beer. Part way back, we made a quick change in a roadside gas station to get spiffed up for the rehearsal dinner for wedding number two – Jake and Kate. A colorful garden, views of nearby Mt. Tamalpais, and copious margaritas accompanied the fiesta-themed gala that evening.

Sunday, we decided, was our day of rest, after serious walking every day of our trip thus far. We packed a picnic, a big blanket, books, and a Frisbee, and headed to Golden Gate Park, where we lazed in the grass in the sunshine for a few hours before cleaning up for the wedding. The festivities were at the Foreign Cinema in the Mission neighborhood – movies were shown on the wall in the outdoor courtyard where we dined on fantastic food and reunited with friends from Overland summers past, where we had met Jake.

That brings us to the last day of this excursion, which we spent in Point Reyes, where I hadn’t been since I was maybe 7 or 8 years old. We hiked out to a cliff above the beachside lagoon and looked down upon sharks and stingrays swimming through the clear water, then followed the path back along a windy crest trail where hawks played above us in the stiff winds and elk ambled in the brush. That night, Jan and Peter introduced us to Burmese food for our last meal together, including a salad made of green tea leaves, beer flavored with ginger and lemon, and a “fresh young coconut” drink served in a whole shell.

And, then, after our epic journey filled with myriad friends and places, we flew all night back to the east coast, through DC, and on up to Portland, Maine. We arrived back at 5 Sheridan bleary eyed to the disarray of our half-moved house, trying to process all that we had experienced before moving on to moving to our new house in Brunswick. Now, over a month after returning, I have finally managed to get it all down. I often wish I could hit the pause button and just stop to absorb the wonderful nuggets of trips like these, but then again, the point of recording things is to reread and recreate pieces of the experience over and over, sapping a little more nutrition from them each time. And, more importantly, to share the experiences with other people, as they never seem complete without including the thoughts and insights that come from friends and family. On that note, we are officially moved in, finally purchased a guest bed and are open for visitors. So, we hope to see you soon.

One Year Later

2009-06-12T13:30:00.000-07:00

We said we wouldn’t go more than a year without returning to Sardegna and we almost did it. We bought our tickets one year to the day, though we didn’t actually go back until a couple months later. It is strange to return as a tourist to a place where you once lived - things feel both familiar and foreign at the same time and, in a country where the language and culture are different, this is even more true. It is like seeing an old friend whom you haven’t seen for a long time: at first, you do a series of double-takes to assure yourself that what you are seeing is real, and things are a little slow to start. But, quickly enough everything is familiar again and the present picks up where the past left off. So it was with our visit to Sardegna – a little awkward at first until we shimmied our way into our old skins and the inert synapses reawoke and found their paths once again.

After a flight to Paris and then to Rome, we completed the last leg of our journey, flying over the sparkling Mediterranean to Sardegna. On our approach into Olbia, I noticed several aquaculture pens in the harbor, and the wheels in my head began to spin, already scheming ways to return under the guise of work, as aquaculture policy is one of my current projects. We arrived at the Olbia airport in the late afternoon and emerged into the moist, warm Sardegnan air, feeling our mussels and skin instantly relax. We sat at the airport bar and sipped our first Ichnusa and ate typical Italian panini of dry bread and meat. American panini, with delightful spreads, fresh greens and grilled bread, are one of those rare non-authentic versions that are better, in my opinion, than the real thing. Soon after lunch, we zipped off in our rented Fiat down the twisty road to Palau past familiar places and crazy drivers who pass you when you don’t think there could possibly be space or time for it to happen. Yet another sign that Italians know how to enjoy life – everything is a sort of game and there is always fun to be had, even if it means risking your life! We went straight to our landlord’s house in Palau, perched high above the town with a gorgeous vista on a perfectly sunny day, and were greeted warmly by Piera and her son, Chicco, who took us down to the apartment they’d arranged for us. It was right across the road from Faraglione, our old haunt, and had a little terrazzo above the gardens which provided a view out toward La Maddalena and the ferry gliding back and forth in between. Most importantly, the apartment, called l’Airone, which means “the heron,” was within easy ambling distance from our old favorite beach, where we immediately headed after dropping off our things. I cannot describe the magic of submerging myself in that water, (although, to be honest, it was pretty “fresca”).

We finally peeled ourselves off the beach and cleaned up a bit before heading up the hill to greet the whole Cannas family, members of which were arriving for Giovanna’s wedding. We managed small fragments of conversation, our words not yet flowing easily from lack of practice and the effects of being awake for over 24 hours, and then excused ourselves to get dinner in town before heading home for a much anticipated long, horizontal doze. On our walk into town along the waterfront path, which was finally finished after over a year of construction, we looked up to see a full moon rising over Santo Stefano. It was truly a “can you believe this?” kind of moment. At dinner, at La Uva Fragola (the strawberry grape, which really means Concord grape), we had wonderful cozze (mussels) and pizza and a little glass pitcher of vino della casa before strolling through the quiet streets of town. While it was Saturday night, tourist season had not yet begun (even the gelateria had closed up shop at 8pm).

And then, we had the sleep of dreams. This was followed by a morning only poorly imitated by Disney movies with dappled sunlight sparkling on the water, sweet scents of dewy mirto, rosemary, jasmine and honeysuckle from the gardens and sounds of birds and butterflies twittering along the terrace. Was it wrong that, on day one, I already was figuring out how to come back? There is a peacefulness in Sardegna that I haven’t been able to replicate back in Maine. I imagine that part of it has less to do with the place than with the lifestyle we had while living there as an expat where I couldn’t fully understand or participate in the complicated interworkings of the culture and society. But, there definitely is a way of life here where people appreciate a slower pace, even compared to Maine, the state whose motto is “the way life should be”. I’m hoping to export some of this sap-slow sweetness.

Sometime mid morning, around 930 or 10 when the shops first open for the day, we headed in to town to do some shopping and were amazed at how readily the shops’ proprietors recognized and greeted us. Those who had been less than ebulliently friendly while we lived there, lit up when we walked in, and asked us all about life in the US, often challenging our capacity to explain things in our rusty Italian. Later in the day, we headed out to Cala Trana on Punta Sardegna, one of our favorite places in the world, reached only by foot along a 30 minute walking path or by boat, and spent the afternoon there before returning to get cleaned up for Giovanna’s wedding. The walk there reminded me of just how much trash there is on the beaches there and of my scheme to return as a part of Ocean Conservancy's International Coastal Cleanup. The guests gathered at the Cannas’s house for a pre-wedding reception and then headed down to the church (as it is the only church in Palau, it is truly “the church”). The guests gathered outside the church to await the arrival of the bride and groom, as did just about everyone else in town, some even peering out the windows of the adjacent bars. The ceremony was foreign in more than one way in that it was a full Catholic mass complete with communion and it was done in Italian. I was able to pick up bits and pieces including the Lord’s prayer, but mostly we followed the crowd in sitting down and standing up throughout. One of the neatest parts was the music - traditional Sardinian songs sung by a small musical group of adults and children, which always sounds a little like lowing farm animals, but is characteristic nonetheless of the wild countryside of the island. The only disappointing thing about the whole experience is that we didn’t bring our camera, so we have no visual record to share, although we’re hoping to get copies of some photos from the Cannas family and will add them in, if we do.

After the ceremony, the guests, 300 or so in all, paraded by car to the Ristorante Parco degli Ulivi, where we were welcomed onto a poolside terrace overlooking hills masked in fading evening light and offered a stunning array of apertivi and antipasti, all elegantly displayed, including a prosciutto tree (a tinfoil-covered tree with pieces of prosciutto draped over the branches). Then, the true feasting began. We were seated at a table of a group of family friends from Milan, most of which spoke a bit of English. Andrea was quite thoughtful in doing this and made sure to check up on us several times throughout the night to make sure we were enjoying ourselves. Having learned a bit from Dan and Ily’s wedding in Sicily, we recognized that the menu we were given did not indicate choices for each courses, but instead listed everything that we were going to be served – 9 courses in all. Small bites of everything is the only way to survive if you want to try it all, and you do. Somehow, 3am rolled around and we had managed to make friends with the folks at our table, including a photographer from Dorgali who went out to his car to get a copy of his fantastic book, which he signed and gave to us.

The next day, we recovered. We slept until noon and had nothing but a cappuccino until dinner that night. In the afternoon, we went for a hike out to a beautiful beach tucked in the rocks, through fields of cows, sheep, and ostrich (not your typical Sardegnan farm animal). Right at the beach there was a little villa along an inviting path, and we briefly considered becoming squatters and taking it over. It was a bit breezy, as is the norm there, but we couldn’t resist a quick plunge in the Med before starting the return hike. That night, we met a group of friends at Oasi, a favorite restaurant we used to bike to when we lived here. It was a wonderful reunion with friends still living in Sardegna, including a new baby who had everyone smiling all night, and those visiting from Naples. It was like so many gatherings we had frequently while living here, the types of which we have greatly missed since leaving.

While walking through town one evening, we ran into Chicco, Andrea and Piera’s son, who had invited us to “pranziamo insieme,” or eat lunch together, at his family’s house the next day. Lunch is a tradition in Italian houses that is difficult to explain. Every day, the entire family (parents, children, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends) gather together mid-day for a lengthy lunch of home made fare. It is not a big event, just a simple gathering with good food where sometimes the conversation is minimal, but nonetheless it lasts for a couple of hours, after which everyone riposes for the afternoon before going back to work in the early evening. For the lunch we were invited to, Piera put together a platter of antipasti (local meats, cheeses, and bread) accompanied by piquant sundried tomato spread to start, followed by home-made crepes filled with spring vegetables - asparagus and artichokes, and finally a delicious apple tart. With our meal, we drank the last bottle of the season’s wine that Chicco had made. Before leaving, we attempted to entice Giovanna and Giovanni to come to Maine on their honeymoon trip to the US. From there, we headed into town to meet Augusto, a local trekking guide, who we hope will be a key ingredient in our evolving concept for a Sardegnan tour business and tossed around ideas for American groups of adventurous tourists. Our visit was short, as we had been invited by Liliana and Pippo to go on an evening horseback ride on Capo d’Orso, where they manage a stable and take groups for rides. We had an unbelievably beautiful evening, the horses plowing through the thick macchia, which released its spicy scents, and then taking a break to cool themselves off by kicking up the water onto themselves and their riders.

When we set out to go to Sardegna, we had in mind to go to Tiscali, a sinkhole up in the mountains outside of Dorgali where people from a nearby village built a hidden retreat during the Roman invasions thousands of years ago. We called up Giovanni, who runs the Agriturismo Didone in Dorgali, with his wife Katy to see if he could direct us to the trailhead for Tiscali and if we could stay at Didone, where we’d stayed a couple of times before. Giovanni met us outside a bar in Dorgali and upon greeting us, exclaimed that he could see me from far away because I was “lucida bianca,” shining white – the consequence of a long winter in Maine). When we met, I offered my condolescences after hearing from him over the phone that his cousin’s mother had died, the reason why, he had explained, he couldn’t accompany us on the hike. He gave me a puzzled look and explained that he was sorry that his horse had broken its foot and he needed to tend to it; I quickly realized I’d made an awkward translational error during our garbled phone conversation that morning and we all had a good laugh. The hike to Tiscali was beautiful – filled with wildflowers along the way and very few other hikers. After two hours of hiking, we reached the village, which is tucked inside a collapsed cave high up in the mountains. The ruins of the houses are still visible, built along the inside of the cavern walls.

After many miles of hiking on a hot day, we were in need of a dip in the Med. We found our way to Cala Cartoe, a beach nearby the agriturismo which was not quite as nearby to the parking area as we had thought. To reach it, required a 20 minute walk from the car, but it was worth the extra mile or two for the wild, wind-swept vista, the site of the movie “Swept Away”. It was wind-swept, indeed, such that our swim was quite brief and quite refreshing! Back at Agriturismo Didone, Katy showed us the new rooms they’d constructed since we’d last visited and pointed out the area by the main house where Giovanni planned to construct a pool and a “Salon di Relax,” basically a lounge area for weary tourists. “Relax” actually translates to “relaxation,” but it still sounds funny. We had talked with Giovanni about our idea to bring Americans over to explore Sardegna and stay in agriturismos like his and he was definitely interested – another partner in our scheme. On our walk up to dinner, we were greeted by a little black pup, who looked suspiciously like Manny, who had visited the agriturismo with us just a year ago . . . For dinner that night, we enjoyed a hearty feast of tomato soup and various piglet parts including heart, liver and ear, which Giovanni described with great enthusiasm by pointing to his own anatomy, and home-made sausages. We braved a little taste of each of the piglet parts, having tried the stomach and intestines during our last visit to Didone, and thought we were worthy of a spotlight on Andrew Zimmern’s “Bizarre Foods” (or, perhaps we could serve as local guides for him). For desert, we had Sardegnan seadas, fried pastries filled with the home made ricotta we have enjoyed every time we’ve stayed at Didone, which were covered in honey, and we washed them down with Giovanni’s Mirto. Knowing that he is a font of local recipes, I asked if he had ever made Mirto bianco before, which is made from the leaves rather than the berries of the plant. I asked because we were down to our last bottle of Mirto back in Maine and the berries, which ripen in the winter, were long finished, but there were plenty of new leaves. He told me how to make it and, in a couple of months, I’ll see how worthwhile my illegal transport of a bag of mirto leaves into the US was.

The next morning, we awoke to the sound of clanging sheep bells and looked out the window to see soft morning colors over the mountains as well as a sheep curled up right under the wheel of our little Fiat parked outside our room. I wish we had thought to record the sounds of the sheeps’ bells, as they are quite evocative of the Sardegnan countryside, and it would be fun to hear them again back in Maine. After breakfast, Giovanni took us for a hike up into the mountains to see some of the homes of the pastori, the mountain shepherds. The houses are simple stone circles, much like the bronze-age nuraghe found in the region, with juniper branches arranged in a teepee-like structure on top. The shepherds keep their goats in stone stables nearby and they stay in these ovili with the kids (capretti) just after they’re born. We were truly in the wilds up there and were only able to visit these remote farms, usually off limits to tourists, as the shepherds are quite territorial, because they are friends of Giovanni. The views from there of Cala Gonone and the Valle de la Luna, where we had hiked last year, were spectacular. Sometime midday, after a parting beer in Dorgali with Giovanni, who seemed to know everyone in town, all of whom passed through the bar to say hello, we headed back north to Palau.

One morning, while out walking near our old house, I had come across Pietro, the caretaker for our building. We got to be good friends with Pietro over the time we lived at Faraglione, as we were the only year-round residents - he was always full of good tales about Sardegnan history and culture. When I saw him this time, he made me promise to come by his house one afternoon to visit with him and his wife, Lucia, who had taught me how to make Aciuleddi, Sardegnan Christmas cookies fried in honey, last year before leaving. And so, on our way to La Maddalena for dinner with friends, we went by Pietro and Lucia’s house for a visit and left with a bottle of home made Mirto. Pietro had given me his mother’s recipe for Mirto when he saw me picking berries in front of our house our last winter there. After our visit, we boarded the ferry to La Madd, feeling strangely familiar standing on the top deck drinking Ichnusa as we looked out at Santo Stefano, and on towards the town of La Maddalena. Once there, we took a quick stroll through the piazza to see what had changed in the last year. The most impressive was the Hotel Exelsior, the big waterfront hotel, which was formerly quite rundown and now had been completely renovated in preparation for the G8, which was scheduled to take place there this summer. Unfortunately, the conference has now been relocated to L’Aquila, the site of the recent earthquake, which has greatly disappointed the locals who have spent enormous amounts of time and money in preparing their little island for the big event. The political reasons for the move are apparently quite complicated; but, nonetheless, the La Maddalenini were very much looking forward to a chance in the spotlight with the departure of the Americans and a void left in their economy. After a brief look around town, we headed to a fantastic dinner at Jen and Herve’s, featuring fresh fish, which Herve caught and cooked on the grill. It reminded us of the many gatherings we’d had in their garden with good friends for various birthdays and holidays.

That brings us, sadly, to our last day. All week, we looked forward to the Friday market in Palau, a weekly ritual when we lived there. Mostly, this was because our precious supply of the best sundried tomatoes in the world, which came from there, had finally run out after carefully rationing them out through the last year. So, we resupplied on sundried tomatoes as well as purchasing other goodies both there and in town to bring back for friends and family. We finally had to stop shopping when we realized the limited capacity of our suitcases. In the afternoon, we packed a picnic and went for one last trip to Cala Trana.It was an amazing day - unexpectedly warm and bright, given the forecast. It wasn’t until we were returned and were within fifty feet of the car that the first raindrop fell. This was perfect timing, as we needed to clean up and pack our things that afternoon, always a sad task at the end of a vacation, so at least there wasn’t sunny gorgeous weather taunting us outside. In fact, the rain set in in the evening and wasn’t predicted to let up for the next few days, so we had really lucked out. We said our goodbyes to the Cannas family, doing our best to express our gratitude to them and inviting them once again to visit us in Maine - describing emotion in a foreign language is always quite a challenge. We had our last night’s dinner at the pizzeria at Camping Acupulco, right next to our old apartment, through which I walked every morning with Manny on our way to the beach. We were joined by Massimo, our friend from the La Maddalena Park, and Paola, a fellow marine biologist who I befriended in Palau. Massimo had helped to organize a beach cleanup last September on Caprera as a part of Ocean Conservancy’s International Coastal Cleanup (another part of my secret mission to return more frequently to Sardegna via my job). I am hoping to get Paola on board as well, as she has connections to the environmental office in Palau. Maybe I’ll have to return next September to help organize it.

Verrrrry early the next morning, we were off in our little Fiat to the Olbia airport, flying out as the sun came up over the Mediterranean. Sometimes it is good to leave a place a bit bleary-eyed, so that you are too tired to feel sad about leaving. Now, the challenge is to try to encapsulate the experience through stories and pictures to draw upon until we can return there again, maybe for vacation or perhaps through one of our many conservation or tourist-oriented schemes. Sardegna, Fall 2010 anyone? One week. Testers wanted. Details to come . . .

March 1st

2009-03-17T18:45:00.001-07:00

We both woke up groggy, stretching out sore limbs indicative of a bug of some sort, before slowly getting out of bed to look out the window and see more snow on the ground. “In like a lion,” indeed. And then, I walked out of the bedroom to see that the one remaining pink blossom on the bougainvillea, which we had bought to remind us of life in warmer climates, had fallen onto the floor. Harumph.

We spent a long, lazy morning inside drinking coffee and reading. At some point, we felt the need to actually get dressed and get out of the house. And so, we set out for a walk on the Eastern Promenade, our usual Sunday destination, with views of the islands of Casco Bay and open spaces for Manny to romp. Looking out the window, the sun was blazing crisply through blue skies and the snow had stopped, leaving a pretty dusting to reflect the light. We made it about half a block out the door before the bite of the wind turned me around to get a hat, which I had optimistically left behind, eager to expose my head to the sky for the first time in several months. Better prepared, we continued on, sniffling at the breeze, but happy to be squinting in the sun. Once at the park, we headed down the path, which I walk on at least once a day and know the contours of quite well. But, we were quickly schooled by the icy layer hidden beneath the freshly fallen snow. After a few warm days, the ground made briefly soft and pliable, the moisture had now refrozen like lumpy, uneven scar tissue. Chad promptly took a comic-book-worthy wipe-out – feet literally right out from under him, followed by a nose dive by Manny straight into a snow bank, leaving all four legs pointing in opposite directions. I took a lesson from them both, and scrambled up the slope to the cleared pavement - on all fours, feeling a bit defeated, but happily unbruised.

Once home, we decided to stay put for the remainder of the day and drink cups of tea – a safer pursuit than our walk had proven to be. Then, it dawned on me that it had been a year to the day since we’d arrived back in the United States from Sardinia. I remembered our last days there - leaving good friends behind after a farewell coffee at Circolo, the Italian officer’s club, riding the ferry for the last time into the port of Palau whereupon we waved goodbye to good friends as our taxi pulled away along the pines and past Acapulco beach, where I walked Manny every morning, and flying off to Rome, where we spent the night before flying all night to Atlanta and then Boston, finishing our trip with a warm welcome by Chad’s parents at Logan airport accompanied by the barking of Manny, a happy sound, as it signaled that our pent-up pup was still alive after 18 hours in his crate. After all that and a sound night’s sleep back in New Castle, NH, we awoke to snowfall. It was March 1st. And, it was magical.

After living through four months of winter in Maine, March is not as charming as it was upon first arrival from the Mediterranean. But, I am able to relive a bit of the charm through my own eyes, in reading my thoughts of a year ago. It got me thinking that I ought to look for more tricks to enjoying the fifth month of winter amongst my old writings, and so I dug up the journal I kept during my year on Chebeague. That winter was the ultimate test – alone in the winter on an island just after leaving behind the comfortable, socially rich life of an undergraduate. Upon rereading my journal entries from that March, I found many of the same frustrations with winter and also the same solutions – stay busy to pass the time, stay outdoors as much as possible, spend time with good friends. And, leave. So, 24 hours after the last bougainvillea blossom dropped, we bought tickets to return to Sardinia in May.

I realize that I may be disappointed in some ways, upon returning there - good friends gone and our life there finished. I also imagine that much will be the same, which can present its own sort of disappointment (Chad often says that he doesn’t like to see the weather report in a place after he’s left because it is confirmation that the place goes on without him), but also provide a sense of comfort. With the perspective of a year, I now understand the things I miss the most about life there and those that I don’t, but which I appreciate in being back here. What I do look forward to, in returning, is the insertion of warmth, an escape from winter in Maine, and an infusion of slow pace and simplicity, which I hope to bottle up and bring it back with me. I read once on a sign outside a local wine shop, “Wine is sunlight trapped in water,” a quote from Galileo. Perhaps I can at least bring back some bottled up Mediterannean sunlight in the form of wine, or, even better, Mirto. In the absence of the ability to literally bottle up the full experience and bring it back with me, one way of storing experience is through writing, which I will have to do upon our return. In the meantime, in midwinter, it is nourishing to read my notes from March 1, one year ago, when a fresh morning’s snowfall was cozy and delightful.
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Winter is heavy, hard and slow

2009-02-17T17:57:00.001-08:00

What used to be an 8am departure for my morning walk with Chad and Manny, is now delayed at least ten minutes by putting on boots, finding a hat, a scarf, picking the right jacket for the conditions (sleet, snow, or just reeeeeeaaally cold), donning at least one pair of gloves, and finally, making sure all items of clothing are tucked inside each other to avoid any potential gaps through which the cold air can enter. The lightness of being is literally taken away, as you realize when you try to move in all of this gear and feel a bit like you’ve donned one of those Sumo wrestler suits you can put on at a carnival. The spontaneity of things goes away, as you can’t pop in and out of doors with the fluidity of warmer seasons’ constant temperature. There is no grabbing a pair of flip flops in winter and heading out the door. The physical heft of winter can make you feel the heaviness of daily life in ways that summer frees you from, allowing you to shake off things easily and let them be carried away by a warm breeze.

It isn’t really the cold itself that I mind, though that is a part of it, but it is the encumbrances of winter. The slogging that we do to get through and around the winter weather begins to wear us down much like slogging through the daily barrage of keeping up with bills, taxes, and all of the paperwork of life. The systems that allow us to exist with the splendid comforts of heat that magically comes on with a switch, drinkable water that flows into our houses, sewage that disappears down a pipe, and snow that moves off the street overnight, all, unfortunately require a lot of paperwork. While, perhaps, reducing the physical load on us, they often wear us down mentally as we try to understand who we are paying for what and why. All of these systems designed to make life easier sometimes just seem to complicate things and make me want to run away to the woods to a little cabin where no one will bothers me. I think – that’s where the magic lies – out in the country where the pine trees are dusted with snow and you can cross-country ski out your door (although I’ve done that here several times this winter). But, then, speaking of encumbrances, you’d have to plow your own street, dig out your car from the pile of snow it lives under in the driveway, rather than walk a few blocks to the nearest market, and you might lose power for more than a half an hour when there’s a storm.

The reality is that winter is just hard, no matter how you do it. But, some higher power has made it beautiful so that I still love it, despite what a pain it can be (literally, my knees have just healed from a massive wipe-out on the ice in front of our house two or three storms back). But, when the fresh snow falls and coats everything with a clean, sparkling layer of simplicity, it is irresistible. Snow takes all the hard lines in the man-made world and makes them softly curved, hiding many of the ugly things like black, cracked streets and sidewalks in the process. And, everything is one color; there is a human need for unending patterns in nature like the ocean, the sky, the desert, or a field of wheat, which can sooth a busy mind. Snow has that power as well, but in some ways is better because it is fleeting and can cover up so quickly what was once so complicated and make it smooth and plain.

Snow days are also great throw-backs in time. You can walk down the middle of the street and, when there’s a parking ban (which flashes on the top of the Time and Temperature Building in the middle of town, which usually just reiterates how cold the temperature is -as if everyone hadn’t noticed), there are no cars on the streets and they are wide and inviting. Schools are cancelled and offices shut down early, so the people that you see out in the snow are often in jolly moods. Jolly enough, usually, to help those who need it, like cars that need an extra push or people who need a hand shoveling a walk. There is a sense of community in a city forced to slow down its pace where people have time to notice their surroundings.

Then, there is the innocence of winter – not only the white simplicity, but also the fun. Anyone who watches kids sledding and rolling around in the snow like it was candy and doesn’t smile is a big scrooge. And there is plenty of grown-up fun to be had as well - skiing, sledding, snowball fights, snowshoeing – not to mention the joy of coming back inside after braving the elements and drinking something hot and eating large portions of belly-warming food. Sometimes it seems silly to go outside in the middle of a blizzard when you don’t have to (which I have been known to do) when, instead you could be inside, warm and dry, rather than getting frostbite, and you wonder, “why this unnecessary expenditure of energy?” Because it’s fun and people need to have fun. As Chad apparently said at age 5 or so to his mom when she cautioned him to be careful crossing the street, keep his coat on, and remember to say please - “Mom, can I have a little fun along the way?” Winter is a great reminder of the need by adults for fun. So, I’ve vowed to suck it up, put on all the layers, tuck them in tight, and get out in the snow as much as possible to take advantage of the fun parts of winter.

That’s all well and good when there is nice fresh snow and the world is bright and you can play in it. But, then comes the sullying of the snow. We had three dogs over one night and you can imagine what the crisp, white snow in the yard looked like the next day. While I understand the need to salt and sand the roads, it results in brown crumbly glop deposited all along the edges of the roads. Once the roads are plowed, the dirt continues to accumulate and get darker and muckier. And then, it melts, and you get ice and you fall (as I did) and you can’t do all the fun things that you could do before because the snow is now covered in a crust that cuts through your ankles when you ski and leaves you post-holing, temporarily suspended and then jolted down to the ground, with every step. Manny, with smaller feet than I, really suffers. Then, there’s the scraping. It brings me back to scraping old paint off of woodwork – the terrible sounds and the tiresomeness of it. In this case, the aim is to remove the casing of ice around your car (although, the other morning we were literally frozen into the house at the backdoor and had to go out the front door to open the back door from the outside). Sometimes it is easier just to turn the engine on and let the windshield heat up on its own, though this requires that you can open your car door to get into the car. This is not fun. Nor is removing the pile of snow that the plow deposited across the end of your driveway and that now weighs two tons because it is saturated, compacted, and frozen. And, once the fun is gone, the feeling of burden returns, and it is too much work with too little incentive to go outside to play.

I will conclude by saying that I am learning, or relearning the tricks, after five winters away – when you simply visit winter, but don’t live in it, it doesn’t count, because you can leave it behind and return home.

A few tricks-

- Get outside and much as possible and play. Reap the fun aspects of winter.
- Laugh at yourself (and maybe swear a little) when it feels like you’ve been beaten down one too many times.
- Make a lot of soup and invite people over to share it.
- Don’t whine – the people in northern Maine really have it bad.
- Make stuff – candles, beer, cheese. It doesn’t matter what, really.
- Write down the things that are swirling, blizzard-like in your head.
- Realize that it’s ok to go away to someplace warmer – it’s not a mark of failure.

Finally. Spring is coming. I have seen the first gullible sprouts poking up near melted snow (quoting my mom).

Your tricks? I’d love to hear them.

Animal Behavior

2008-11-05T15:45:00.001-08:00

No, this is not going to be about my dog, Manny, though I will use him as a starting point. I often envy the simplicity of his happiness and the unfiltered expression of his emotion – tail wag=happy, whine=unhappy, e basta, as the Italians would say.
We humans often forget that we are animals - social animals – and that, often, our nonverbal communication is equally, if not more, important than our verbal communication.

What got me thinking about this? Conference calls, or, more generally, working far away from co-workers such that all of your communication becomes one dimensional – either verbal or written (I will tackle written communication in another blog), both leaving out the critical body language component – the proverbial wagging tail. As an aside, it is important to note that in-person meetings have their own flaws and aren’t always the most productive, but, I want to address the additional layer of difficulty in accomplishing things with a group of people that you don’t share the same physical space with.

Conference calls - When you’re “meeting” on a call rather than in a room with other people, it is easier for each attendee’s mind to drift into his/her own separate thoughts because the human voice alone is not nearly as captivating as watching a person’s face as they speak - watching them scratch their head, breathe deeply, or maybe crack a smile. Needless to say, those subtle human movements are not only captivating but communicative. Eyebrows raised conveys interest or surprise. Furrowed brow shows you are concentrating or displeased. If you look at someone as you say something challenging, you convey confidence. If you look away, you are nervous.

This gets at one of the major reasons why conference calls are often not productive. Who’s in charge? In my opinion, a conference call REALLY needs a benevolent dictator, whereas an in-person meeting can be more of a brainstorming session where all players are more or less equal (though that can flop as well). This is because there is often confusion about who should be speaking and how to take turns doing so without the nonverbal cues. The director needs to make sure everyone gets his or her turn to contribute. It is also the director’s responsibility to recognize where there is agreement and use that to move the meeting along. In-person meetings have the advantage of behaviors including the head nod (up and down)=I agree and I also want to see if others in the room agree, the head nod (side to side) = I disagree but am not quite sure what I want to say in opposition, and so forth. You can move a meeting along just by reading these signals. On a conference call, however, you can stick your voice out there into the void and let it hang there for a minute, uncomfortably waiting to see what the response is from the invisible audience. Someone actually has to ask, “Are we in agreement about this?” rather than saying “I can see that we are all on the same page.” Cue the benevolent dictator who can help to ensure that the geographic distance between the people doesn’t result in a misperceived disparity of opinion.

So, how do we solve this? There are great new technologies out there to allow people to be virtually together – the videoconferencing. The technology for this has gotten much better so that there are fewer awkward delays that lead to people talking over one another or not understanding what is being said. And this gets us part of the way. But, there is still a sense of camaraderie missing – a kind of human chemistry that helps us to understand each other. Back to dogs - think about what they are able to communicate just by sniffing each other (not that I would suggest a similar technique with humans). This points out the multidimensionality of our relationships with each other – in a videoconference, we can hear each other, see each other, but we still can’t BE with each other. At my recent staff retreat of co-workers with whom I have spent many hours on the phone, some of whom I’d never met, there was a frenzy of socializing, condensing many months’ of missing contact into 2 ½ days, and a realization that we all just felt better to spend some time getting to know each other.

This geographic separation seems to have evolved from employers wanting to hire the very best people, no matter where they live in the country – the national search for candidates for a position for which, in all reality, there is probably someone pretty darned qualified right down the street, or at least closer than halfway across the country. There was a period where people just picked up and moved for work, plucking up their families from their comfortable communities where they knew where to buy the best cup of coffee and where the best shortcuts were to get around the rush hour traffic, to move across the country and learn the intricacies of a brand new place. Hmm . . . I guess I did that too, or at least as a tag-along military wife for the past several years. I have already written about the challenges of moving all over the country (see “Why I Have No Friends”), so I won’t belabor that. Anyway, more recently, technology has allowed people to stay put in Durango, while working for a company in San Francisco. This is essentially the expression of priorities – give up camaraderie with co-workers in order to keep camaraderie with those you really care about, your friends and family. I can’t argue with that.

But, can’t we have both? Let’s all just stop moving! If everyone stayed in the same place for awhile, maybe employers would look for local job candidates and they would be there, not out in California. And, businesses would become more localized and co-workers could have real, in-person, interactions with each other. And, maybe we’d all get more done - and wag our tails a bit more.

Information Inundation

2008-09-27T12:43:00.001-07:00

I think I have started to write about this before, but taken off on another tangent. So, here it is in depth – the “information inundation” unraveled. Everyone talks about it, I know. But, I have a little different perspective having recently been in a culture where I was hungry for information, as most of what was around me was difficult for me to understand. Signs along the road, newspapers in waiting rooms, napkins at restaurants, conversations of passersby, slogans on the radio and stories on TV, were all in media-speak, which they don’t teach on language cds. I could usually figure out the gist of things, but I never got familiar enough with the language for it to come easily. Thus, it was a conscious choice TO understand things around me rather than NOT TO understand them. Rather than quickly scanning signs or advertisements and getting a sense of all of them, I had to choose the ones I wanted to figure out and make an effort to translate them, sometimes to comedic ends, as I didn’t quite get puns or figures of speech. Or, if I wasn’t in the mood for more input, I simply looked at text as art and conversation as music and moved along in my own little world.

Upon moving back, I was thrilled to have so much of my surroundings so readily accessible. I didn’t feel like a stranger – I could fully participate in the American culture. I realize that things in Sardinia were different on a number of levels: not only due to the language barrier, but there was also just less “stuff” to understand since we lived in a rural area there and now live in a city (or, at least a cheater city, as I like to call Portland – meaning that very much as a compliment).

This newfound level of participation was exciting. I felt stimulated and alive in a way I didn’t realize I’d missed while overseas. . . until it gave me a big, fat headache and I realized that my little brain couldn’t possibly hold in all this input without literally exploding. Thump, thump went my head as the information inside kicked and screamed to get out. I had no input filter, as I was eager and curious to take everything in, and so now I had to figure out how to let some of it back out. My rapidly firing synapses were like a pinball machine zipping from one thing to the next (have I used that metaphor before?), trying to snip off little samples of everything. I felt like a kid who eagerly gets out all her toys at once and then throws a tantrum because she can’t decide which one to play with. Too many is sometimes not enough and one can be the world - Basho should have said that. I found a great quote awhile back by George Wald, a scientist who studied vision, which says that something you are entranced and stimulated by can be like “a very narrow window through which at a distance one can see only a crack of light. As one comes closer the view grows wider and wider until finally through this small narrow window one is looking at the universe.” You just need to land on something and that, if you stick with it, it can become the world, encompass all of your passions, and design your understanding of everything around you.

So then, how do you choose? There’s only so much that one person can do and trying to do everything often results in accomplishing nothing. But, I am one of those people who reads every word accompanying each display at a museum exhibit. I have this fear that I might miss something good. But, I am beginning to understand that I will always miss something good and that’s okay.

Recently, on a stroll through the lovely brick streets of Portland, it dawned on me as I peeked in windows filled with brightly colored objects and read posters stuck on lampposts with upcoming events, that I’m really quite spoiled - how much better it is to have too many good things to do that you can’t possibly do them all than to be bored by everything around you such that you become lethargic and depressed. But, again, the trick is to learn that you must choose.

There was recently a great article by Sandra Tsing Loh, one of my favorite writers on what I like to call “the modern woman dilemma,” who talked about trying to balance family life and a career. This is really a subject for another blog. But, the sentiment, “You can do it all, if you live like a man,” is relevant. You have to let some things go for the sake of pursuing others and it can be fun when you do it for something worthwhile. Go for a walk on a sunny day and forget the pile of laundry on the floor – look at it and laugh as you walk out the door. This is really a different situation because sunny walks are definitely more appealing than laundry. The problem I described before is that there is often more than one good option and that those options compete with each other. And, then there’s always the worthless stuff as well. Somehow, you have to let just the good stuff filter through, keeping the junk out, and then choose amongst them.

So, I’m working on building a filter and on being glad that there is often more than one appealing option and that making a choice doesn’t necessarily close doors, it just challenges you to find a way to incorporate your other interests into what you are currently doing. And, there’s always tomorrow – one wouldn’t want to run out of interesting things to do and they don’t all have to happen at once, despite what the pace of life may seem to dictate. One thing at a time, Italian style; peek through the window, find your way into the sun and stay there awhile. The rest will follow.

"Sunlight captured in water . . ."

2008-09-08T15:06:00.000-07:00

After a few entries of ponderings, I have finally decided to write another travelogue. It isn’t as if we haven’t had wonderful weekend romps and paddles since returning to Maine, but my mind has been too full of other “musings” to focus on those experiences enough to write them all down. So, after an amazing weekend spent in Downeast Maine, I am finally getting around to writing another recounting of travels. Being back in Maine and reconsidering what an “adventure” is, I realize that Maine prepared me well for adventures far away in that I truly learned to adventure while living in Maine, seeking out the nooks and crannies of the state for magical hikes and quiet small towns, and that it prepared me well for adventures afar. And now, I am back adventuring in Maine with a renewed enthusiasm that has been enhanced by my experiences away. In a way, I have started treating Maine as an island similar to Sardegna that I need to explore all corners of in order to have a complete sense of it.

Thus begins the tale of Labor Day weekend. In pursuit of a manageable long weekend adventure, and having been curious about the northernmost part of the coast of Maine for quite some time, we decided that it was time. The state of Maine is really darn big and that in all my travels within it, I had never been all the way up the coast.

As a bit of an aside, but with relevance to my previous blog about the lack of local friends, I have to start on Friday of the weekend and describe how our evening picnic came to be. While running on the Eastern Promenade one afternoon, I had a double-take moment where I thought I recognized a classmate from Bowdoin. Then, a few more strides down the path, I realized that it was, in fact, who I thought it was, though I was now out of comfortable earshot. I passed this information on to Chad, who did a little research through “Linked-In” for me (as you know, I am still a hold-out on social networks for the moment) and managed to get in touch with our friend, Pete. On my home from work the next day, I stopped at the tailor and happened to see Pete’s wife and we exchanged numbers and addresses – realizing that we lived only blocks away from each other. On my way out of the store, I got a message from Chad saying that, at the very moment when I had run into Joan in person, he had been chatting with Pete over email. We all decided it was fated that we should get together and arranged for a picnic on the Promenade . . .and voila, local friends, and we reconnected with them in person, (though we did reconnect over cyberspace as well). And so it finally begins – the making of local friends. Too bad they’re moving to South Portland next week.

On to Saturday. After loading up the car with loads of equipment and provisions for the weekend, we were off to see old friends – not so old, but in the strange conception of time when you have left a far away and different experience, it feels like longer ago than it really is. These are friends from La Maddalena who now live in Gardiner, Maine in a great old farmhouse that they’ve renovated. We lunched Italian style, visiting on their porch in the sun with a glass of wine and then enjoying a delicious, lingering meal while discussing where to buy rare Sardinian foods, like pane carasau (a cracker-crisp flat bread) and pecorino cheese, in Maine - they being foodies like us. We waxed on about the lifestyle we had in Italy and how other-worldly it seems now looking back. Finally, roused ourselves for the long drive north.

Our first destination was Cobscook Bay State Park, located, not surprisingly, on Cobscook Bay. On the drive up, we listened to a western story on cd, making us remark on the first red-tipped leaves of late summer (we don’t use the "f" word yet) in accents as if we were gangster and gun moll. We finally got there and schlepped our stuff to our campsite (car camping does not inspire conservative packing and we had managed to easily fill up the Jetta with stuff, ourselves, and the pup), which was quite private and quiet. Just as we had set up our little blue tent, gotten the grill going with our lovely salmon filet we’d brought along, and set the picnic table for a fancy camp-dining experience, a few drops began to fall. Luckily, Chad had precautionarily put up the rain fly before we started cooking and we had kept our rain jackets handy - too bad Manny didn’t have his own slicker. He was quickly ushered into the vestibule of the tent, much to his dismay, so as not to become a wet, chilly dog, whereupon he repeatedly poked his nose out from under the flap and attempted to escape and we had to take turns pushing him back in. Despite the rain, we managed to eat our salmon, pouring a bit of water off our plates, and drink a little watered-down wine. Then, we headed to our snug tent for the requisite terrible first night’s sleep of any camping experience. We hadn’t exactly earned our Thermarests that day, spending most of it eating or sitting in the car – lesson learned. Through the night, Manny only attempted to escape twice, both times followed by attempts to enter the tent with us, instead acquiescing to simply laying as close as possible to me in my sleeping bag while the door was still closed, making our small tent even more squished.

The next morning, we caffeinated ourselves with our handy Italian stovetop caffeteria and were on our way to Quoddy Head State Park, located on a headland looking out towards Campobello Island in Canada. It was a gorgeous hike, which took us on a side loop along a plank path through a peat bog filled with red and green sphagnum mosses and insect-eating pitcher plants – apparently the result of a retreating glacier a long, long time ago. We ended our hike at a smooth rock beach, perfect for picnicking and a wade out into the chilly, clear water, and then scrambled up to the famous striped lighthouse. After our picnic, we went into the town of Lubec, dubbed the “easternmost town in the United States,” which was also one of the sleepiest – an interesting mix of neat frame captain’s houses that were painted whimsical colors set next to shoddier versions of the same that looked long abandoned. In a quick moment, we had seen the entire town.

This left us a bit more time than anticipated, so that we could see Eastport, the “easternmost city in the US,” though I might down-classify these both locales as a village and a town, the claim to Eastport’s city-dom being a bit presumptuous. That said, I had imagined Eastport to be a little run down and depressing, having lost much of its fishing and processing industry years ago, but it was burgeoning with art galleries and renovations to early 20th century brick buildings that lined the main street. At one end of town, we were reminded of the fishing heritage by a large gnome-like statue of a fisherman, supposedly erected for a reality TV show. The harbor was full of well-kept fishing boats and loads of people fishing off the pier for mackerel, swimming through the swift current. On our way out of town, we saw the current ripping through the narrows with fish jumping and a plevy of seals having an easy meal.

From there, we drove out to Shackford Head, where we went for a quick walk out the headland through drizzly rain, hoping that we would return to have a drier dinner experience that night. We read that the beach nearby was the site where several Civil War ships had been burned - their stories told on an array of plaques. Maybe they just needed an out of the way spot that wouldn’t draw too much attention. The precipice at the end of our hike looked out in one direction over an array of salmon aquaculture pens, which are an important part of the economy in Downeast Maine, and, in the other, over the breaking clouds and streaming evening light on the water. Afterwards, we happily made use of the campground showers before preparing dinner under clear skies at our campsite. A long day of exploring, hot showers, a filling dinner finished by some Kahlua-enhanced hot chocolate enjoyed fireside, all led to a good night’s sleep. Just to be sure of it, we also clipped Manny’s leash to the tent to prevent a midnight runaway pup.

The next morning, we drove to Cutler to hike the Bold Coast Trail, having provisioned with a picnic and plenty of water for the 10-mile loop. It was truly a magical experience with no one on the trail but us for nearly the whole distance. We walked the inland portion of the trail first, discovering woodland delights such as a purple fungus, a wood frog hopping across the path, and an array of animal scat filled with the wild berries that grew rampant – blackberries, raspberries, and low bush blueberries (our favorite). Finally, we emerged at the coast, sunlight illuminating the tiny village of Cutler with its picturesque white lighthouse. We lunched at a fantastic rocky outcropping and watched the waves crash below while airing out our sweaty t-shirts, (an illustration of gender differences).

Amidst the rocks, we found cranberries growing and glugged the rest of a near-empty water bottle to make a collection container, now prepped to gather more berries on the return journey. There were endless patches of blueberries, bigger than any wild ones I’d seen, and we couldn’t stop picking them until we’d filled up the entire bottle. Even Manny partook, nibbling away as we stooped over the bushes. I recently saw a sign outside a shop in Portland that said, “wine is sunlight trapped in water.” I think blueberries are Maine summer captured in water. A bit disappointed that our lunch spot didn’t provide a swimming opportunity, I spotted a perfect pebbly beach part way back and we refreshed our tired, sweaty selves – rinfrescante, as the Italians would say – quite cold! All told, one of the best hikes we’ve ever done anywhere in the world – really.

And for the final leg of our journey, we drove south to Acadia National Park to visit friends who live in Bar Harbor. Almost comically, as we crossed onto Mount Desert Island, a bald eagle flew over head. Matt and Sara, our friends there, said they had ordered it to greet us. We spent a relaxing night with them, sharing recent life stories, and then said goodbye in the morning after a short hike in the park.

A long, but very scenic drive back, accompanied by more coarse western stories, put us back at 5 Sheridan where we did a marathon of laundry and dishes after cleaning out our car of all the camping accoutrements (when you’re camping for just a few days, who really needs to do dishes?). Even Manny got a bath. And, thus ends the first Portland travelogue. We are determined to have many more, so stay tuned, though I am sure to muse some more as well along the way as well.

Why I have no friends

2008-08-06T19:15:00.000-07:00

Ok, I have lots of friends. But, none of them are here. Every weekend, it seems we are going somewhere. And then, we come home and we are alone in the great city of Portland. I think that, since moving back to Portland in March, we have been in Portland for a grand total of four complete weekends. And, most of those we have spent mostly alone and are glad to do so as we have had a very busy social calendar in just five short months. So, it feels like we have loads of friends, sometimes like we have too many and we’d just like some peace and quiet. But, what we don’t have is local friends to call up last minute and grab a drink or dinner on a Saturday night. One of the things that we had looked forward to getting out of the Navy and moving back to the US and especially choosing to live in town in Portland was to be part of a community where we could develop a local network and put down some roots and not worry about leaving in a couple of years. But, here we are. I realize that this is a bit premature as we haven’t even been here for six months, but it still feels funny.

We have loads of friends in the states of New Hampshire, Maine and Massachusetts, all within an afternoon’s drive from us. These are the people that we spend most of our time with. We travel to see each other – a kind of social commuting. Think of the cost of this. Sometimes I think I should start a “Friend Local” campaign to complement the “Buy Local” movement that has grown so popular. It would encourage people to cut down on their social carbon footprint and support local communities by making friends with their neighbors instead of driving to and fro all of the time. It really does seem silly how many people are essentially trading places on the weekends to see their friends in different places. But, we love them and no new friend can live up to the worn warmth of an old friend. It’s just that we don’t have any energy left to add in local friends to the mix and so we remain in this transient state - although we so much want to be part of a community, we just aren’t here enough because we are busy with friends elsewhere.

I would never give these friends up and I could never relegate them to simply being electronic friends because of the fantastic immeasurable value of physical human togetherness, though I have had to do this with many friends who are simply too far away to see on a regular basis, which brings up another challenge to making local friends.

I know they’re out there. Every day I see people who look jolly and adventurous – perfect “new friend material,” but then my cell phone rings and it is a friend from San Francisco and they’re gone. When I get home, I think, maybe I’ll walk up to the local coffee shop and hang out for a bit and see if I meet any interesting people. But, then I check my email and there’s a new note from a friend in Spain and I forget about getting coffee. And, here I am, blogging, to keep in touch with all of you rather than meeting the people who live next door. You get so good at distance communication and find ways to use emoticons and punctuation to show your emotions when you can’t literally show them, that you feel like you’re almost there with a person. It’s amazing how much someone’s own “voice” can come through in the tone of an email and how skilled we’ve become in getting that across when we can’t see each other face to face.

I have wonderful friends all over the country and I love that I can keep in touch with them when I can’t see them and that it is so easy to communicate with people so far away. Think about what it must have been like back in the days of letter writing when months would pass with no news from loved ones because the ship carrying the letter sank in a storm or maybe the letter was just lost. Now, in a matter of seconds, you can have an exchange with someone halfway around the world! And, knowing that you may only get one letter through every few months, think of the effort put into composing that letter. It would be no dashed off two line email to say you heard a song that reminded you of the time you were at summer camp together.

You would think that because communication is so much more efficient now, we would spend less time doing it. But, it seems to be just the opposite. It is so simple to call or text or email or Skype or chat or blog that you can hardly resist. And, other people can’t resist either, so that you’ve got to respond to all of these flitting thoughts all of the time. On one hand, I love to know when a distant friend is thinking of me, but on another, I feel compelled to immediately write back. As a result, it sometimes seems like I have a virtual secondary life, and I don’t even participate in online gaming or serious virtual worlding that is out there.

Between seeing not-so-local friends and keeping up with distant friends, I find that my social budget is pretty much used up both in hours and emotional supply and that there isn’t much left to make friends in my own neighborhood.

Enter the social inventions of “Facebook” and “Linked In” and the like. These sites attempt to reunite the floating lost souls who once hung out in college or at an old job and have since moved across the country and lost each other, as we have all become so ridiculously mobile that this is more the norm than the exception. The mere existence of such networking sites proves that quick communication is imperfect and that you can still lose touch with people and that there is a need for a way to reunite. Although, I have snobbishly never subscribed to these website because I figure that I am in touch with anyone that I would want to find and that I probably lost touch with those others for a reason. I do admit, however, that I have heard many stories of successful reunions and have also poached these reconnections from other people who have alerted me to old friends who now live nearby.

This brings up the concept of the friend swap. Every time I move to a new city or have a friend that is doing so, we swap contact lists of people who we think the other would enjoy. I recently had one of these experiences where I had a kind of friend “first date” with a friend of a friend. You talk about the friend in common, a bit about yourselves, suffer through a few pauses, and then evaluate whether you think you’ll actually ever hang out. While I have never had an unpleasant experience of this sort, it always feels a little forced; really, you have been set up on a blind date. Sometimes it works and sometimes you pleasantly part and go your separate ways.

So, what do we do about this? I really don’t know. I want to have it all – not-so-local friends, distant friends, AND local friends. I know it will require patience, for one, but also perhaps some creativity. Maybe I do need to join “Facebook” – who knows. Any ideas? I’d love to hear them. Commiserations are welcome too, of course.

Why We Work

2008-07-04T06:04:00.000-07:00

One afternoon at the Sheraton Conference center in Wakefield, MA, running on a treadmill next to twenty or so other young professionals getting in their day’s activity, I was suddenly struck by the absurdity of the productivity level of all of these bodies spinning machines with fancy lighted displays showing how many calories have been burned or how many virtual miles have been traveled. How was it that this required electricity rather than generated it? This seemed particularly poignant as I was at a meeting for the Ocean Conservancy, where I am now working to protect the ocean environment from the effects of humankind, one of which is the enormous amount of resources we consume every day.

It is inspiring to be part of an organization so dedicated to conservation and actually making a difference in bringing about new legislation and protections for the marine environment. The environmental movement is much more advanced in this country than in Italy where organizations such as the National Park of the La Maddalena Archipelago, ostensibly designed to protect the area, are mere facades of conservation rather than actually doing much to conserve anything. In fact, the environmental movement was born in the US as a part of the country’s heritage and appreciation of the seemingly boundless resources here. The first national park, Yellowstone, was designated in 1872 in order to protect a piece of nature for all to enjoy in the future, thus putting a distinct value on nature as a necessary source of happiness for Americans. There is a recognition of the inherent value of nature and the landscape, which is also expressed as part of the - to have a piece of its land for yourself, a kind of natural oasis of privacy from the rest of the world.

But, as I was watching all of this vigorous activity vaporize into the moist gym-air against the backdrop of flashing electronic panels, using electricity rather than generating it, the conundrum hit me. We have to protect the resources that we love because we use loads of them. As a part of the American dream, we build big houses set on big plots of land connected by roads that we drive down in our big cars to get to the big stores. The largess of things is a tangential topic, which I won’t go into right now, but is relevant nonetheless. On top of the scale of things, think of the power and water and sewer lines that run criss-crossing long distances to provide services to all of these little oases. Having lived in a culture where everyone lives virtually on top of one another even when there is ample space to spread out, I can say that it is definitely nice to be back in a culture where people place a high value on personal space, but it has also become apparent that, in order to have it, requires a lot of resources.

Add to that the busyness of our culture and the drive to be productive in all that we do. I plead guilty to reading my email about one subject, writing unrelated notes about a second, all while talking on the phone about a third. But, I’m saving the planet, right? It just requires that I create lots of reports and brochures that I print out on reams of paper and ship all over the place (not to mention the people that fundraise for environmental non-profits through zillions of mailings), and I drive to places like Wakefield for meetings or fly to DC and I need to have an office with a fax and a copier and telephones and computers and lights and heating and cooling systems that are on all the time in order that I can successfully protect the world’s oceans. If I wasn’t doing this, I would probably be outside enjoying the ocean and using virtually no resources at all, having walked or biked my way there and relishing in being disconnected from all electronic devices. This is not to mention the fact that I have noticed that the more I work, the more resources I consume in my personal life – I dry my laundry in a dryer rather than hanging it outside, I vacuum instead of sweep, making use of machines that I have to plug in to do my work in less time. Add to that driving more, eating more pre-packaged food, and working out at gymns!

Maybe it is out of a sense of collective guilt that environmentalism has grown increasingly popular. We love the idea of conservation of the very nature that drew people to populate this country in the first place and that we identify with so strongly. And so, we race around working very hard to protect it and we are, on the whole, well ahead of the rest of the world. In Italy, for example, there is a great appreciation for nature as well, but the same sense of stewardship does not exist. Nature is thought of as a place that is there for everyone to enjoy but no one to take ownership or responsibility for. Here, we are so used to the idea of owning our own piece of it that it makes sense to organize ourselves to manage it well – to have established parks, monitoring programs to keep track of wildlife, water quality protections in place, and rules – lots of rules – in place to tell people how to behave when using this nature.

While we are ahead in protections for the environment, we are far behind in reducing our resource consumption. Don’t we have to do promote environmentalism because we use so many resources on a daily basis that if we didn’t use up some of these resources protecting and defending nature, it wouldn’t be there at all? Or, could we just use less in the first place and spend fewer resources protecting it? Skeptics of the environmental movement might then say that all of us environmentalists ought to quit our jobs and stay home and we’d have a bigger impact. Maybe we’d all be happier too. But, part one of the great things about Americans is their drive towards progress - we all have a need to be a part of that which is ingrained through our upbringing and reinforced by everything around us. So, perhaps there is a middle ground out there where we will realize that a pace that is a little slower is actually more productive and consumes fewer resources. Then, I think we really would all be happier (and save the planet too).

Zinging

2008-06-13T07:40:00.000-07:00

I have started this several times now and have gotten stuck on how to do a Portland blog. I haven’t traveled to any exotic places lately, or eaten wormy cheese. I am, instead, finding intrigue in the daily life of living back in the United States after being away for 18 months. These are the things that I think about, not the next grand adventure, and so I have to start a fresh blog that is completely different, but that is a big challenge. I know that it is rather commonplace to say that living overseas gives you a new perspective on life in your own country, but certain things are repeated because they are true. At the risk of sounding snobby, it is a little like climbing the Eiffel Tower. You think, “I don’t need to do that. Everyone who comes to Paris thinks they need to go up the tower. I’d rather spend the afternoon looking for the out-of-the-way spots than succumb to another tourist trap.” But, then, you give in and go up, and it is fantastic, and you think, “There is actually a reason why everyone goes up in the tower.” There are two age-old truths here: that you don’t appreciate something until you experience it for yourself and that many people have already discovered what, for you, is a new discovery. To that end, I have always scoffed at people who said that living abroad enlightened them with regard to American culture, and thought it sounded rather erudite. But, now I am experiencing it for myself, and it is enlightening, but also a little uncomfortable.

I think that there are certain things worth exploring about this transitional period and thought that, perhaps, that is the best theme for my Portland blog. I am approaching it as a sort of regular column with my musings on life in America as a 30-something living in Portland, Maine and figuring out what I miss about Italy and what I missed about the U.S. So, I have called in “New American Musings,” though that might not stick. I am open to other suggestions . . .

As I said, I have tried to start a Portland blog several times and gotten stuck because I have so many things zinging through my head about what it has been like to move back. So, I think that is the best first topic: the zinging itself and where it originates. Being a food-centric person, as well as one who is interested in the basic elements of a culture and how people function within it, I will begin with what it was like to go to an American grocery store for the first time upon my return. For contrast, you can read my story entitled, “Making Thai Curry in Sardegna,” about learning the ropes of the Italian grocery shopping experience. Now, I’ve got to learn the reverse.
We moved back to Maine in March and arrived before all of our belongings, which were coming via ship, plane, and truck both from San Diego, where we had stored things that we had long forgotten the identities of, and from Sardinia. With a kind of survival kit lovingly packed by Chad’s mom, we moved into our rented house in Portland in the middle of the month and waited for our stuff. We dined on a picnic table salvaged from the garage, using place mats as seats on the old benches, which would otherwise have left prints of old paint on our pants, and used our sets of two: two plates, two forks, two knives, two glasses, marveling at the simplicity of cooking with one pot and a frying pan. I have gotten ahead of myself a little bit, as none of this was possible without a trip to the grocery store. Portland has its local Hannaford store on the Back Cove, which was redone just as we were leaving Maine nearly five years ago and it is often ogled over for its selection of wonderful breads, fresh produce, and a myriad of ethnic foods. So, we were excited to check it out and buy some basic supplies to make our first dinner in our new place.

Without getting too bogged down in the details, I will summarize by saying that I made it through the store in a sort of wide-eyed daze that seemed a bit like what I imagine it might be like to experience a strong hallucinogenic drug. The store was a carnival of sensory experience with mounds of fresh produce from all over the world, self-serve stations filled with a dozen types of olives, and a deli case filled with meats of all sorts – ground, sliced, bone in or boneless, skin on or off, free range pent-up? or whatever you call its opposite, not to mention those that were marinated in one of three different sauces, skewered on kebabs or stuffed with a variety of goodies. My head was spinning before I even made it to the dry goods section. There, the canned tomatoes took up nearly half an aisle – stewed, diced, whole, peeled, crushed, organic, imported. . . “Who cares! I just want some damned tomatoes,” I thought. At this point, Chad began to see the glazed look on my face of a Sooz-turned-automaton just trying to hang on through the pin-ball machine of the store and out through the nearest escape hatch, having collected as many goods along the way while being battered back and forth by the innumerable choices.

In Sardinia, I was dying for the selection I had once had in the U.S., where I could buy Mexican, Thai, and Greek foods all at the same store in any variety and quantity I desired. But, now I wasn’t sure I could handle the variety. The biggest store in Palau, where I shopped, would fit in half of the produce section of this store. No wonder Americans are so stressed – one can only handle making so many decisions each day and most of them are used up before you run to the store at the end of the day to pick something up for dinner. What power can you possibly have left to navigate such a carnival.

In addition to the having been overwhelmed by this variety, I emerged, outside, at the end of it all, having never interacted with a single other human being. Not even a friendly checker, as we had avoided the day’s-end long lines and headed through the self check-out. Had I tried to purchase a bottle of wine, which requires an ID, I might have actually talked to another human, but I did not. Chad might even argue that I didn’t interact with him, as it was all I could do just to focus on surviving the shopping experience. We were able to do the self check-out because, despite the enormity of items available, we had successfully stuck to a short list of basic supplies in an effort to get out of there as quickly as possible. Even so, to get these same items back in Palau, I would have had to talk to at least four people – the butcher, the produce vendor, the cheese lady, and the checker. These were the people that, though my Italian was never perfect, always said hello and helped me to find what I needed. Here, I thought, back in my own culture, where I am perfectly equipped to have conversations with anyone I please and can intelligently discuss complicated issues without having to come up with hand gestures to help me in my explanations, I had not a single interaction in my whole shopping experience! What is wrong here! Have we modernized ourselves right out of human interaction? I suppose everyone is too busy virtually interacting with each other on the blackberries and cell phones or on My Space or Face Book, but what about the irreplaceable face-to-face interactions of humans satisfying their innate, animal, social needs.

Thus was my introduction back into shopping in America. While it may seem silly to focus on a grocery store experience, it is something that nearly everyone has to do in every culture around the world and it has the power to shape your human experience. In this case, it brought to light more all-encompassing aspects of American culture than I had anticipated and made me think hard about the way that we American functions. I realize that I am comparing two things that are unequal on several levels in that I lived in a small town in Sardinia and now live in a medium-sized city in America. I do not intend to compare the US to Italy, as many of my observations about American life are likely to be similar in the urban areas of Italy as well. But, it doesn’t really matter. The observations are the same. The point is that I never quite realized the impact that these small daily events, such as grocery shopping, both illustrate the culture of a group and define it at the same time until I saw it as if I were an outsider.

So, I am faced with a dilemma: do I continue to gripe about things and try to find another way to shop – there are several small neighborhood grocery stores, but they are specialty shops and few carry basic things like meats and produce. Otherwise, I would seize this opportunity happily and forgo the big weekly grocery trip that I have now adopted into my routine. But, this would, in some ways keep me in a culture in which I no longer live and inhibit my attempts to assimilate into my "new” culture. Or, I can charge forward and embrace the variety and efficiency that an impersonal shopping experience affords, thus better experiencing what the masses do. Then, I can be a grouch with them about the same things in the same way and thereby feel a part of things, for better or for worse. At the moment, I have chosen mostly to do the latter and to buck up for the big weekly shop, though I have incorporated a run around the Back Cove prior to shopping to calm my nerves. I can look at my weekly shopping trip as a kind of sociological experiment and deal with it more easily as a study in common experience. Although, I recently heard that there is a new neighborhood market opening up that will have produce and meats – a one-stop dinner shopping spot which is sure to require human interaction and have a smaller selection of items to choose from. I will have to decide whether I’ve had enough of my cultural experiment and can now choose the alternate path. Or, perhaps, by then, I will have adapted and shopping at the big store will be a breeze.

I hope you have enjoyed the first edition of my “Musings”. You will notice that there is a comments section where you can post your thoughts, or just say hello and let me know what you are up to. I would love to hear from you all in either case.

22 Marzo

2008-03-22T14:46:00.000-07:00

As it has been awhile since my last blog, I have yet to capture a few other significant adventures in the month of February. Shortly after returning from our trip to Romania, we went with the

same crew plus a couple of other friends to Oristano, a couple of hours south of Palau, to see S’Artiglia, one of the many festivals of

Carnevale and tauted as one of the best. On our way there, looking for a place for an afternoon amble, we stopped at the small town of Leonardo dei Siete Fuentes, so-called for the seven springs in the hillside above town, its name also reflecting the Spanish-Catalan influence in this part of Sardegna. We found a charming walkway starting from a

centuries-old stone church and continuing along moss-covered rocks dripping with moisture through oak groves sheltering picnic areas built of giant slabs of granite, surely a welcome cool place of respite in the heat of the summer. We filled our water bottles before leaving, only to later find out that these springs are famous for their radioactive, diuretic water – we would, apparently, shortly be lighting our own way to the nearest restroom.We spent the night at the Agriturismo L’Orto in San Vero Milis; it was the best combination of local production and modern convenience we’ve found in Sardegna – heated rooms and hot water! amidst beautiful orange groves, the best-known product of this region. This provoked a lengthy discussion about starting a sort of agriturismo-style lodge in the U.S. upon return in order to live the country life and spend days making cheese and tending the garden.

The morning of the festival, we awoke to pouring rain and, over a lingering breakfast in the main house, imagined how miserable it would be to stand outside all day for the festival under these conditions. But, it soon began to clear, and by the time we arrived in Oristano, the sun had returned. The festival began with the dressing of the lead rider in the town hall. The tradition goes that the virgins of the town bind his head in many cloths

and then affix bridal veils to his head beneath a carved wooden mask, a process that takes many hours due to the degree of ceremony. He is then carried to his horse and placed upon it, as it is unlucky for his feet to touch the ground once he has been dressed. His mission is to spear a silver star hanging at the entrance of town with his sword while galloping through on his horse. If he succeeds, he brings good luck to the town for thefollowing year. This is a tradition that apparently goes back 400 years and was originally a wedding celebration.

He is followed by many other riders who attempt to accomplish the same thing, all dressed fantastically in the Aragonese costumes complete with wooden masks and saddle blankets

covered in elaborate ribboned rosettes of all colors. For the event, the streets had been covered in sand andgrandstands set up above the location of the star for ticketed spectators. We, on the other hand,

took turns hoisting each other up or elbowing our way to the front of the crowd to catch a glimpse of the riders’ attempts. Apparently, this is followed by a series of horseback acrobatic displays, but, needing to return in time to help out with the evening’s Superbowl festivities on the base, we left before this part of the festival. Chad managed to stay up virtually all night to sadly watch the Patriots end a perfect season with their one final loss being the championship.

Back in Palau, the Carnevale festivities were much quieter this year with the absence of the Americans. We did manage to see the parade on Martedi Grasso (Fat Tuesday) with its many

wildly-dressed teenagers and reveling onlookers. While last year, the party continued late into the evening, this year things were nearly wrapped up by 8 o’clock. The most humorous of the floats this year was a mini-submarine bearing an American flag and a tin cup on the back soliciting offerings for the poor remaining

La Maddalenians. On the cup was written, “Lacrymi dei La Maddalenini” (tears of the La Maddalenians). There is much apprehension regarding what will happen with the economy here in the period following the base closure.

At the end of the week, Meredith, a friend from Bowdoin, came to visit – our very last guest. We had a wonderful time taking Manny for long walks, punctuated by frequent bird-spottings by Meredith, and touring around Palau and La Maddalena. And, finally, at nearly our last opportunity, we headed south to tag the southernmost tip of Sardegna with a visit to Cagliari. The first afternoon, we stretched our legs with a walk in the Foresta dei Sette Fratelli; seven must be a lucky number, as these were the seven peaks and we had just been to

the seven springs. It was a much lusher, boreal forest than in northern Sardegna and full of chirping birds to satisfy Mer. We spent the night in an agriturismo north of Cagliari which wound up being a bit further down a long, dark dirt road than we’d anticipated, but where we had a

delicious meal including capretto (baby goat) and agnello (lamb) from their farm. The agriturismo was also an environmental education center that provided courses and excursions for students and there were many trails in the surrounding hills which we explored the next morning. Then, we headed into the big city. Cagliari had the feel of a mainland Italian city with its bustling streets and diverse population such that it was easy to forget we were in Sardegna. Chad left us on our own here and headed back to Palau. We were to return by train the next day.

We walked until we dropped that afternoon, exploring the walled Castello district with its many guard towers and narrow cobblestone streets, as well as hunting for the alleged Phoenician tunnels beneath the botanical gardens to no avail. The next morning, we took the bus out to the salt flats and lagoons near Poetto beach to hunt for flamingos and other migratory rarities. Unsure exactly of we were going, we got off at what looked like a likely spot and found the flats, but couldn’t manage to find a way across the dyke that separated the main road from them. However, just as we were feeling disappointed, Meredith spotted flamingos across the way with her expert binoculars and, afterwards, many other interesting marsh birds. So, it was not a wash after all. A couple more hours of city exploring, some lunch and a gelato later (liquorice for me – a first), we got on the train, thus ending our southern tour. There was something romantic about riding through the Sardegnan countryside, looking out the window at rolling hills filled with sheep and shepherds’ houses while listening to opera on my ipod– perhaps an improvement on D.H. Lawrence’s experience.

Back in Palau, we prepared for the last shipment of our things to leave and, after a matter of just a couple of hours one morning, the house was nearly empty. Afterwards, we dug out our landlord’s furniture, bedding, and some basics to use in the kitchen to make it feel a little more homey. The chaos of moving is, I suppose, a good thing in terms of accepting leaving a place as it makes things feel enough different and enough less comfortable that it is easier to leave. With little left at home and things mostly reorganized for the moment, Meredith and I spent her last day in Sardegna in Santa Teresa, about a half hour from Palau, bird-watching and picnicking on the beach. It was a welcome reprieve from the sadness of our echoey house.

And then, she was off, and we were left in our place to enjoy the last weekend in Palau and to, delightedly, see the first of the spring wildflowers – purple crocus and yellow daffodils – poking up between the coastal rocks. Spring is a beautiful time in Sardegna and I am sad to leave with just a tease of its show. The final stretch of the weekend was spent cleaning out the house and packing up the car to transfer over to La Maddalena. We had gone back and forth about whether to stay in our house until the very end or move over to a temporary apartment in La Maddalena, and decided that, for simplicity, we would close up in Palau and move over along with the other few remaining Americans on the base. This, also, made it easier to leave, as it felt like, when we left Palau, life as we knew it in Sardegna was finished and it was time think of what was ahead in Maine. I couldn’t leave without a last early morning walk on the beach with Manny and one last dip in the Med after a run up the railroad tracks. On our way out, we also passed by Pietro and Lucia’s, the caretaker of our condo and his wife, to have a café and say goodbye with promises to come again when we return for vacation. And then, we waved goodbye to our home in Palau.

Now, the days left in Sardegna are dwindling and this will, as such, be the last blog from here. I am writing from our temporary apartment in La Maddalena. It feels strange to stay here, as it is the same apartment where we stayed when we first came to La Maddalena a year and half ago. The owners, Daniele and Pina, were wonderful hosts to us then, so we decided to stay with them again for the last stretch. Walking the streets around the apartment, I have been reminded of my early feelings upon arrival in La Maddalena - wonder at our luck to be coming to such a place and eagerness to get to know this small island community. Now, the shine has rubbed off a bit and we are able to find things to gripe about like the always-speeding cars on the very narrow streets, the stray dogs that follow me in a train when walking Manny, and the tap water, the color of weak beef broth, which has again taken its toll on my stomach despite my careful efforts not to ingest any of it. I realize, however, that I have generated most of these complaints in a subconscious effort to begin to distance myself, as it is much easier to leave a

place by focusing on its flaws, thereby further illuminating the place to which you will go. Just think - clothes dryers, potable water, and houses with heat! (although heat is a luxury of our temporary apartment and one which we greatly enjoyed during a recent cold snap that left brina (frost) on the plants outside our door). Daniele and Pina have made us feel welcome and looked once again after our final week here with little touches like a bowl of fruit and cookies awaiting us upon arrival and a recent gift of a bottle of Mirto for a dinner party we had last night.

I did, however, miss Palau immediately upon moving over to La Maddalena, and found myself back there several days this week. Andrea, our landlord, invited us over for dinner one evening and prepared a wonderful traditional feast complete with home-made wine and porceddu (roast suckling pig), a Sardegnan specialty we are sure to miss. We had tearful goodbyes and made promises to return as soon as is possible. On Friday, I went to the Palau market for the last time and made the rounds to visit many of the local vendors whom I had gotten to know over the last year and a half – the butcher, the fishmonger, the hairdresser, the wine shop proprietor, among others, exchanging addresses and best wishes along the way and trying not to feel too melancholic about our departure. I had lunch at Paola’s, a marine biologist whom I had befriended, and said another tearful goodbye when I finally headed home late in the afternoon. It is “dolce-amaro,” bitter sweet, to leave; I am grateful to be sad, as it makes me appreciate the people and experiences that made my time in Sardegna so special, but I still wish I had a little more time to enjoy them.

On Saturday morning, after several recent failed attempts due to windy weather, we were finally able to get out to the island of Spargi, the third biggest in the La Maddalena Archipelago, with our friend, Massimo, who is a guide for the park. Andrea, a friend of his

who caretakes a house on Spargi, came over to get us in his gommone (an inflatable rubber motor boat) and, after a bit of a struggle to get our scared pup into the boat, we skimmed across some of the most tranquil, flat water I’ve seen since living here, and in a short time arrived at Cala Corsara, the beach we could see from our house in Palau. Once ashore, we began a

beautiful hike up the ridge along old military roads to the lookout tower,

battling the thick macchia (scrubby dense vegetation) along the way. Our legs are still recovering from the beating they got - through our pants. The view up top was spectacular and we documented it with a group picture captured by the self-timer on

our carefully-balanced camera. On our descent, we saw old farmhouses and military barracks and watchtowers breaking through the dense green below, and also the white house where Andrea was working and towards which we were slowly battling in what we dubbed “La Guerra della Macchia” (The War Against the Macchia). And, finally we emerged at the beautiful oasis we’d seen from above and followed the rising smoke to find the fire that Andrea had started for our afternoon picnic. We dumped the rocks out of our shoes, picked spines from our socks, and stretched out in the sun while the sausages sizzled on the fire, smelling the sweet scents of burning juniper and elicriso. Fresh fruit and sliced fennel, bread and cheese, and a bit of homemade wine all accompanied our salsiccia for a delightful seaside picnic well-earned after our battle against the macchia. After lunch, we went on an easy walk along a well-cleared path (much to our relief) up to Punta Banditi, the site of another old military watch point. At lunch, Augosto, another caretaker of the house, bet me that I would find a bar at the top of the point to have a café, but I was skeptical.

I was happily proven wrong upon our arrival and enjoyed a hot café

with a beautiful view in a small rifugio (a sort of camp) tucked in the

rocks that several of the guides had fashioned. Fueled by a dose of caffeine, we proceeded to Petraiaccia, a series of fortresses constructed during WWII which were completely hidden in the rocks in order to avoid detection from the air by enemy planes.

It was a fantastical playground of caves and hidden staircases completely integrated into the wind-sculpted rocks. And,

from there, we returned to the dock in time for a sunset return trip to La Maddalena. That night over dinner, we commented on “un giorno tremendo” (a splendid day), and then slept the heavy sleep made possible only by a day spent outdoors.

Sunday, we decided to have a small gathering of American friends at our apartment in La Madd to enjoy each others’ company before everyone’s departure. After preparing Zuppa Gallurese, a local specialty of layers of broth-soaked bread and cheese baked in the oven like lasagna, for Thanksgiving, a few friends here asked for a lesson on how to make it. I had gotten tips from many locals: the perfect soft sheep’s milk cheese to buy, to leave the bread out to become stale, and to make a broth from veal and sheep bones (the refuse of which made Manny very happy), and the proper mix of spices to add including surprising ingredients like star anise and cinnamon. Inspired by requests for a cooking lesson, we hosted a small gathering with loads of good food brought by all and finished off by tiramisu, another specialty I’ve learned to make while here, and Daniele’s home-made Mirto. It was a grand festa which concluded a fantastic final weekend here made magical by blue skies and sparkling Sardegnan sunshine.

One perk of living on La Maddalena has been the ability to hop on early-morning boat trips such as that to Spargi with Massimo. I had also been begging Pippo,

the husband of Liliana, who worksin Chad’s office, to go fishing with him sometime, and, finally, in our last week here, we arranged a trip. We left from Porto Massimo early enough to see the warm morning light on the horizon and took Pippo’s little fishing boat out to the island of Razzoli. As one who is alert to the idea of serendipitous or not-so-serendipitous events, it seemed perfectly fitting because I had just finished translating a story that Massimo wrote about the lighthouse on Razzoli and my curiosity about the island had been peaked.

Pippo is not only a fisherman, but an avid student of human and natural history in the Archipelago. On the way out, he showed me a piece of an amphora he had collected while diving on a sunken Roman military vessel off one of the islands, and taught me how to identify the elegant white birds fishing on the rocks.

We tied up the boat in a small cove and set off for a walking tour around the island with the dogs in tow – Manny and his two 6-month-old hunting dogs, Speedy and Gonzalez. The rosemary bushes were in purple bloom and the elicriso scented the air in the growing breeze. Razzoli, unlike Spargi, had been used for cattle grazing over the years, helping to clear some of the macchia, making trekking much less painful. We arrived at the lighthouse, which I learned was the first one in Sardegna, and inspected the abandoned building now held up by rusting scaffolding – one of the many projects begun and then forgotten by the Italian government, according to Pippo. Pippo told me about the lighthouse keepers’ families that once lived there - four families in all, each of which had their own garden plot and grazing area, the walls of which were still visible amidst the macchia.

From there, we looped around to a series of small beaches protected by the Catene (Chains) of Razzoli, a long peninsula creating the Cala Lunga at its base, and then back to the boat for a picnic in a spot sheltered from the wind. We had planned on fishing in the afternoon, but the wind had picked up and white water blew off the crests of the waves. Instead, we made a short tour of the surrounding islands and then returned to Lily and Pippo’s house for a café and some research on the birds we’d seen on our island tour. Pippo had mentioned a particular bird, the Beccaccia, which could be found in the springtime on Razzoli, where it stopped over on its migration from North Africa. He described this bird of the woods with its camouflaged coloring and furtive nature, but I couldn’t come up with the English name for it. Upon looking it up, I discovered that it is a woodcock, the strange bird that I saw do its mating dance in spring in Maine, flying high up into the air and then spinning, fluttering downwards to the ground. Yet another fitting but unexpected link between the present and our future in Maine.

After a blustery afternoon on Razzoli, a café and a short nap to refuel, and a hot shower to warm up, we headed over to Palau to have one final dinner with the remaining other Americans from the base at Robertino’s, a favorite for local seafood. It was a fantastic final spread with good company and we barely wrapped things up in time for the 1030 ferry, feeling strange to be rushing to catch a ferry to La Maddalena in the evening rather than from it. The next morning, we met the same crew for café at Circolo, the Italian Officer’s Club, where the American officers regularly meet each morning. There were many goodbyes, but also promises to see each other soon, as a few friends from La Maddalena will be on the east coast and within visiting distance. One of the challenges of military life is that you are always meeting new people and then, all too quickly, telling them goodbye. This time, we are lucky to have friends who will still be living relatively nearby back in the US.

Later that day, we were all packed up and loading our things into a taxi to leave the island. In a kind of farewell gesture, the sun broke through the clouds after a rainy, gray morning and provided the perfect setting for our last ferry ride across to Palau, which we celebrated with an Ichnusa (the local Sardinian beer) on the upper deck. On the other side, we were greeted by Giovanna and Giovanni, our landlord's daughter and her boyfriend,

who were the farewell emissaries for their family and waved us goodbye as we pulled away from the port. We passed by the entrance to Faraglione, our condo complex, and along Acapulco Beach, both of which we had not visited since moving out the previous week. It was probably best given the emotions of leaving and seemed right to see them again only in passing on our final drive out. From there, all of our travels went remarkably smoothly. Meridiana, the airline from Olbia to Rome, let us virtually walk Manny onto the plane at the last moment of boarding, much to our surprise and Manny’s delight. That night, we stayed in Fiumicino, not far from the airport, at the same hotel where we had stayed on our way here a couple of summers ago. With Manny in tow, we sought out a place for dinner where we could eat outside and managed to convince the proprietor at a small pizzeria to set one of the empty plastic tables on the patio for us, despite his protestations that it was far too cold (it was at least 50˚F). After some gelato and a good night’s sleep, I took Manny for a romp on the beach to wear him out before the long flight and was taken aback by a neon pink sunrise at the end of the beach – a final send-off from Italy.

At the Rome airport, despite being told that Manny would not be able to fly into Boston because the temperature there was too cold, a very helpful attendant hesitantly stuck the check-in sticker on his crate to get him through Atlanta and on the plane to Boston. After 11 hours in flight to arrive in Atlanta, we were greeted in the customs area by a quick viewing of our pup, still wagging his tail, but we had to leave him shortly to catch our flight north. At the gate, we watched in anticipation to assure that his crate was loaded onto the plane and, after every single other bag was loaded, up bumped Manny’s crate and we, much relieved, boarded the plane. Finally, somewhere around 3am Sardinia time, we emerged into the baggage area at Logan Airport to find Chad’s dad’s smiling face and open arms, a most welcome sight! We could also hear Manny barking from down the corridor – a welcome sound after nearly 18 hours in his crate. I rescued him and ran across the traffic lanes in the pick-up area to find a patch of green grass – a little piece of heaven for poor Manny. The physiology of dogs is truly remarkable!

That brings us mostly up to the present. Aside from the wonders of such things as magical machines that you can put your clothes into and they come out dry, and water running out of the tap that is clear and drinkable, not to mention how many people here speak English, I am happy to say that it just feels good to be back in New England. Our first morning, we sat on the couch with steaming mugs of coffee in front of a fire and watched snow come down over the Piscataqua River while catching up with Chad’s parents. Being amongst the familiar and good friends and family is an indescribably comfortable feeling and, at least for now, overwhelms homesickness for Sardegna.

We had a short trip up to Portland, as well, to see the house that Chad’s parents scouted out for us and to get a feel for the city again (and to have a much-craved sushi lunch), and left reinvigorated and confident about our decision to live there. Then, I headed to St. Louis to

family and Chad went to Rhode Island to go through the formalities of leaving the Navy. Now, we have returned to await the arrival of our many shipments of things by air, mail and ship, and prepare to start anew in Maine. For now, we continue in the Leap Year state of things, being neither fully here nor there in both location and mind, and are just trying to digest it all in the transition and to prepare to reshape our lives as Americans once again.

24 Gennaio

2008-01-26T05:22:00.000-08:00

The weather gods are smiling upon us today as it is unusually calm and the sky is crystal clear so that I can see the crisp white snow atop the Corsican mountains. I am happily sitting outside where it feels a bit less stark compared to the inside of our house which is missing most of its furniture after our first day of packing out yesterday. We’re not too bad off since the apartment was fully furnished before we arrived and most of the things were up in the attic storage space for us to bring down. But, we’re still waiting for our landlord to bring over a sofa. At the moment, we have a single chair and small wooden table in the living room, so it isn’t the coziest place. Hopefully, that will be rectified tomorrow morning.

Things here are racing to a close as we have now begun to pack up and have sadly already said goodbye to many of our friends. Tomorrow, there is a closure ceremony on the base, which will make things feel more official, though I think there are a grand total of about fifty people remaining to attend the celebration. I suppose, as more friends leave and life here becomes lonelier, we will be more eager and less melancholic about leaving ourselves.

Of course, we are trying to pack in as much travel as possible as well and have just returned from another weekend trip. Aside from Turkey, this was perhaps the most culturally different place to which we have traveled. We spent the weekend in the tiny village of Miklosvar in Transylvania, Romania at the guesthouses of the Count Kolnoky. Apparently, his family, royalty under the Austro-Hungarian Empire, was exiled during the Communist period and lost their property. Recently, the Count has returned to Transylvania to reclaim the family castle, hunting lodge and guesthouses and is slowly renovating each property.

Our journey to get there was a bit longer than we’d anticipated, starting with a very early flight to Rome, then another to Bucharest, and then a more than four-hour van ride to Miklosvar (not the simple 3-hour transfer advertised by our hotel). But, along the way, we were able to learn a bit about Romania from our driver, Josef, who met us at the airport clad in grey woolen pants and sweater and a well-worn fur cap. He taught us a few words in Hungarian, which we learned was the language spoken in Miklosvar, rather than Romanian. The only word that stuck was “Koszonom,” meaning thank you, and we used it prolifically. In the more central part of Romania near the airport, Romanian was spoken. Because it is a Latin-based language, we were able to recognize many of the words on the signs along the road. Hearing it, however, was an entirely different story. The scenery along the way included a strange mix of turn-of-the-century buildings with elaborate wooden carved adornments with desolate communist bloc high-rise apartment buildings – and the occasional horse-drawn cart pulling a load of wood down the road.

After our long journey, we arrived in Miklosvar, a tiny village made up of colorful square Saxon-style houses along a single main street punctuated by old hand-cranked wells that were still very much in use. The chilly air and low evening fog over the snow covered streets made for a bleak and eerie scene. However, shortly after we arrived, we were shown to our guesthouse just down the road from the main lodge and found it to be the perfect cozy respite. Inside, we found creaky wooden floors and heavy ceiling beams, a thick down comforter on our hand-carved bed and a traditional tiled Russian woodstove which provided wonderful radiant heat. The lodge was similarly appointed with traditionally carved and painted cabinets and multiple woodstoves and fireplaces. Our dinner that night was down in the wine cellar where we were served soup from a large steaming terrine followed by platters of veal, potatoes and red cabbage topped with a rich sour cream – all carried by women with arms that looked like they had kneaded a lot of bread. There is a sturdiness to everything here from the solid square houses to the thick-legged horses to the dark, stoutly built locals. I suppose the mode of living necessitates a certain amount of heartiness both in build and in character. Sadly, we were not able to communicate with any of the people we came across in town, so it was difficult to get a sense of their friendliness or lack thereof.

Because of the difficulties in communication, one of the services that the guesthouse offered was to provide guided tours – by English-speaking locals. Each night at dinner, we were presented with the next day’s options. We decided to spend our first day in Brasov, about a half-hour away, in order to see a few historical sites. Before heading to bed, however, we retired to what became known as the “Brandy Room” to taste the guesthouse’s caraway brandy fireside and peruse some of the information on the area. Apparently, along with potatoes, home-brewed brandy is considered a culinary staple in this region.

The next morning, after a snug night’s sleep and a curious breakfast including the more familiar muesli and yogurt along with a garlicky eggplant spread and plates of sausage, cheese, tomatoes and strangely-pale green peppers, we headed off on our tour. We stopped first at a fortressed church built by the Teutonic Knights in the 12th century. It was not just a fortressed church, but a refuge for the entire village when it came under attack. We learned that their major adversary was the Turks and that Romania was a major region of conflict between the Ottoman and the Austro-Hungarian empires. Inside the fortress walls were rows of apartments to house the villagers, places to store water and food supplies and a church in the center. The history here is complicated and involves many ethnic groups including Romanians, Saxons, Turks, Hungarians, Seklers and Gypsies. I read a brief history of the interactions between these groups in one of the guesthouse books, but it was too much to absorb and relay. From there, we went into the city of Brasov. To gain some perspective, we rode a cable car up Tampa Mountain and looked down at the walled city below, nestled in the valley of snow-covered hills. Our guide, George, pointed out Brasov’s main square where we were going to have lunch upon our descent. Again, it was cool and moist out, and we were happy to tuck inside for a hot lunch. After the usual soups and plates of meat and potatoes, the highlight of the meal was apple strudel with a brandy-soaked crust. Then, we were off to see the Black Church, so named because it was burned by the Austrians in 1689 and the smoke blackened the inner walls as well as a painting of the Madonna, the background of which was turned from blue to black. It was adorned with an impressive collection of Ottoman rugs as well – apparently the second largest collection in the world. We walked through town afterwards and window-shopped, converting the local currency, the Ron, into Euros to get a sense of local prices. Though Romania has been a member of the European Union for a year now, it has not yet adopted the Euro. The people with whom we have spoken have universally said that they think EU membership will bring good things to Romania, but that progress will be slow. Currently, the economy is fairly depressed with most people living very simply in a not-so-forgiving climate. Apparently, the government is corrupt and has not done much to improve general living conditions for its citizens, but that is already starting to change.

At the end of a long day of traveling and absorbing many new things, we returned to Miklosvar for a short rest before dinner. This also included a visit to the guesthouse sauna, which we found to be warmer than it was hot, but sufficient to get the blood flowing. We enjoyed more soup followed by Hungarian stuffed peppers and more potatoes for dinner before the post-dinner fireside brandy where we visited with a few of the other guests and anticipated the next day’s sleigh ride.

The next day, we met another guide, Michael, who took us to what really were one-horse open sleighs waiting for us just down the street. They pulled us through the rolling snowy hills, jingling all the way. The mist from the nearby river made everything quiet and mysterious such that, were it not for a slim line of skeletal trees, it would have been difficult to tell the difference between the hillside and the equally white sky. We stopped at a track going up the hill to have a walk through the woods and look for animal prints in the snow. We found fox, deer and dog prints as well as those of wild boar, the target of hunters at this time of year. Recently, the land in this area has been reclaimed by the older families by looking at the old Austro-Hungarian parcel maps and is now being used again for farming and grazing. When we returned to the village, we visited the Count’s old hunting lodge, now empty, but set to become a sort of cultural center for the village in the future. A bit chilly from the sleigh-ride, we returned to the guesthouse lodge and warmed our toes by the fire before consuming another hearty meal. In need of a good walk, I set off into the fields to explore. Along the way, I watched a woman draw water up from the well and a horse-drawn cart pass by with a load of wood, and thought how similar life is here now as it was a hundred years ago. It gives you a better sense of the youth of the United States and its culture to see a place with such a traditional way of life.

We sadly reached our final day in Romania and had to make our way back to the airport in Bucharest for an evening flight. We had time, however, to stop at the beautiful Peles Castle outside of Sinaia. We marveled at the ornate building and gardens outside, but that was as far as we got. The king was visiting and, apparently, did not want any visitors that day. Afterwards, we walked through the town of Sinaia, where we had a surprisingly difficult time acquiring souvenirs despite the fact that it was touted as a tourist village. And then, we were off for the long drive to Bucharest with George at the wheel driving our minibus like a racecar along the narrow, potholed streets.

And that brings us back to the present where we are looking forward to just a little over a month remaining here and then it’s back to Maine where we welcome small conveniences like a clothes dryer, central heating, and stores that don’t close for riposo, but will certainly miss the beauty of this place and all of the culture that we’ve been able to observe here and around Europe. Mostly, we look forward to seeing many of you soon and finally being able to tell our tales in person.

31 December 2007

2008-01-02T01:50:00.000-08:00

It is the last day of 2007 and we are anticipating a feast at the base on La Maddalena this evening to welcome in the New Year. 2007 has been quite a year filled with many adventures and it is likely to remain a memorable one for many years to come. Sadly, we will not likely make it until midnight this year, as we are both recovering from a nasty bout of the flu which made the rounds amongst the group of friends we went skiing with over Christmas. So, we’ll all be in good early-to-bed company tonight. Maybe we’ll hear the fireworks in our Nyquil-induced dreams.
The ski trip, despite the spread of a nasty virus, was fantastic. We were somewhat primed for the wintry weather by a sudden turn of seasons in Sardegna in mid-December where the high over a period of a week or two was only 7C (44F). I know that sounds pretty wimpy, but it feels cold when all you have is one portable heater and the wind comes right through the windows such that you can see the leaves on your indoor plants blowing in the breeze. Up in the Dolomites, however, it was truly winter and glistening frozen ponds and snow-capped peaks welcomed us into the Tyrolean region. It is easy to forget that you are still in Italy, as streets are named things like Amberstrass and every town has two names – the old Austrian and a newer Italian name added after the war. The architecture of white stucco houses with heavy dark beams and overhanging roofs reminded us of Garmisch. We arrived at the Hotel Adler in the small village of Villabassa in the late afternoon after an overnight ferry ride and a long drive north and discovered that the Residence, the part of the hotel where we had booked a room, was a bit further away from the main hotel that we’d thought and we realized that the temperature outside would make it a chilly walk to and from breakfast and dinner each day, especially after skiing. So, Chad set off to inquire about a room in the main hotel and we were soon set up in the Junior Suite compliments of the proprietor, a friend of a friend who has a house in Sardegna and whom I had tutored in English at the beginning of the summer. They were quite posh accommodations – complete with two bathrooms! Little did we know that, later, this would provide a comfortable respite for a flu-addled Chad. That night, we met up with nearly a dozen friends from La Maddalena who had all just arrived, and had the first of many fantastic dinners at the hotel with many more courses than our stomachs had anticipated.

The next morning, we opted for an early start to get to the mountain and rent skis for the week. After the gathering of the troops over breakfast, followed by the rounding up of proper clothing and provisions for the day and the stuffing of children into new snowsuits, we set off to Kromplatz in a caravan of cars. And, sometime midmorning once we’d finally all gotten fully equipped, all the skiers rode the gondola up to the top of the mountain for the trip’s first run, leaving the sledders and snowboarders to the lower slopes for the day. The views were beautiful with natural snow on the peaks (though artificial on the slopes) and bright sunshine. We greatly enjoyed the sun over lunch on the outdoor porch of a mid-mountain restaurant where we ate all manner of sausages, spetzels and knodels. Then, we were off again, for a few more runs before calling it a day. This was the basic routine of our ski days, each of which brought increased speed and confidence for me after a tentative start and little previous skiing experience. I actually reached the point where my level of fun surpassed that of my fear.

Our ski day was then followed by returning to the Adler to take a very eager pup for a walk through the fields across from the hotel and then stopping by the nightly gluwein stand in the piazza for a mug of the local hot mulled wine by the fire. We realized how maladapted our poor pup was to the cold when we noticed him doing a little two legged dance on the icy ground as we waited for the carolers to start one evening. From there, we retreated indoors to the delightful Hotel spa to warm up and relax tired muscles. This left us just enough time to clean up before the multi-hour, multi-course dinner that ended each day and from which we all departed full and exhausted.

Aside from the skiing, we also had a chance to explore a couple of the towns in the area in the afternoons. Brunico, at the base of Kromplatz, had a wonderful Christmas market with booths full of various local crafts including gingerbread hearts, carved wooden ornaments, and colorful woolen capes and clogs. We even heard Tyrolean horn players performing on the longest horns I’ve ever seen. And, of course, we found steaming mugs of gluwein to keep us warm while perusing the market. Another afternoon, we headed into Cortina d’Ampezzo to see the famous glitzy resort town there. We had heard that people liked to show off their furs and high fashion there, and found this to be more than true – even the dogs had fur-trimmed jackets! We decided that Brunico was more our style.

The visit to Cortina was after a day of skiing there. The scenery was unbelievable. We thought that Kromplatz was beautiful, but at Cortina, the lifts take you through jagged channels in the rocks that are sparkling with fresh snow, up to nearly 3000 meters at the top. I couldn’t stop taking pictures. It was interesting to note the difference in style between the two mountains as Kromplatz was much more modern with fancy gondolas and big mountain restaurants, while Cortina had many of the old-style open chairlifts and little lodges. There were also many more Italians at Cortina than at Kromplatz, which was to our advantage since Italians like to sleep in the morning and we were there bright and early. Just after we finished lunch, they started rolling in. Not so at the Austrian-dominated Kromplatz, which was crowded by 9am.

After our day at Cortina, we returned to the Adler for Christmas Eve. Unfortunately, this was the night that Chad succumbed to the flu, but he did manage to emerge after dinner for caroling and gluwein around the hotel’s Christmas tree. Christmas Day, the group met up for one last day of skiing altogether (except for a still-feverish Chad). It was a beautiful, sunny morning with few skiers on the slopes, although we did see one in a full Santa suit! We headed back after lunch to have our Christmas gift exchange in the hotel’s cozy card room, followed by an outdoor fire with more hot gluwein in the piazza. Dinner was a grand feast complete with roast Christmas goose, a first for most of us.

And, that brought us, sadly, to the end of our stay at the Hotel Adler. We left the next morning to make our way toward the ferry. Midday, we stopped in Bologna, hoping to explore the famous Quadrilatero food district, but, as it was riposo and the day after Christmas, most of the shops were closed. It was great window-shopping ,though, which was easier as we had Manny in tow. The architecture in the city was beautiful with many brick buildings, a rarity for Italy, and narrow winding streets off the main piazzas. One of most unusual things we saw was the sarcophagus of St. Dominic, the namesake of the Dominican monks, which was perched high atop an elevated monument outside the Basilica. Then, it was onwards to the ferry and home to Sardinia, returning in the wee hours of the morning to our chilly, dark house.

We decided to have Christmas part II once back at home so that we could open each other’s presents there. We made a shellfish stew on “Christmas Eve” reminiscent of the Olcott tradition of haddock chowder and watched Charlie Brown’s Christmas Special in front of the fire. The next morning, we opened presents in our pajamas and had Norwegian apple cake a la Andrea and fresh squeezed OJ a la Tom. We lingered over the pile of loot for several hours thereafter, enjoying many new goodies and reliving Christmas Day now that we were at home. We did our best to recreate the traditions of our families, but still missed them quite a bit and spent the afternoon catching up with parents and siblings via phone. And sometime late in the day, I became the latest flu victim in the family - Merry Christmas!

And, that brings us back to the present, to celebrate the end of 2007 and the coming of 2008 (and with it, hopefully the return of health for both of us!). The arrival of January means that we will be saying goodbye to many of our friends here who are leaving before the closure of the base. So, we are hunkering down for the last couple of months and preparing to return to the land of English-speakers, baseball, and apple-pie come the end of February. Hopefully I’ll get in at least one more travelogue as we try to squeeze as much out of Sardinia as we can before we go. Meanwhile, happy 2008 to all.

28 Novembre

2007-11-28T08:17:00.000-08:00

It is an unusually balmy day here with mercurial smooth seas and misty warm air such that we cannot see the new snow on Corsica which fell earlier this week. It is hard to believe that, just two weeks ago, I was nestled around the heater in our living room with Andrea and Charley while hail pelted the ground and the wind blew the rain through our not-so-well-sealed windows. Now, the winds have died and the temperatures have climbed a little, but we are still waiting for a few warm, sunny days to do some much-needed laundry as we are, in the Italian tradition, without a dryer. That aside, the return of the wet season has given rise to a wonderful greening of the landscape here such that it sometimes feels more like spring than fall, though the chilly nights and the re-lighting of our lone bombola heater remind us otherwise.

The chill seemed appropriate for Thanksgiving, known by Italians as the Festa Ringraziamento (Festival of Thanks) or, for the more culinarily-minded, the Giorno di Tachino (Day of the Turkey), which we celebrated with many friends here and from which we have finally recovered. Chad made DadO’s famous oyster-walnut-sausage stuffing, truly a meal unto itself, and I finally successfully made Zuppa Gallurese, the traditional layered bread/broth/cheese dish of this area of Sardegna that I’ve been trying to master. The secret was a special type of Sardegnan bread and homemade lamb and veal broth, the bones from which Manny delightedly munched on for several days afterwards. After our grand feast, we had nearly a whole turkey’s worth of meat left, requiring a team of bone-pickers to clean the carcasses before the rounds of desert began.

Weather and feasting aside, this has been the season for visitors, starting with Gwynne (a friend from graduate school) and her parents. They only stayed a few days in Sardegna, but we managed to pack in a wine-tasting excursion and a fantastic dinner at a local agriturismo among other adventures. This was shortly on the heels of Chad’s parents’ visit such that, after the guests were gone, I enjoyed a lovely girls’ weekend at the spa to appropriately relax. The spa overlooked natural hot springs and the site of the ancient Roman baths of Fordongianus on the river below. I returned much rejuvenated, having soaked and steamed for enough hours to turn me into a human prune.

After just a few days back at home, Chad was off to the U.S. for a job interview in Portland, where we will be heading come spring. We are still getting used to the idea of living in a place that has true winter and where snow isn’t just something you see in the far off mountains but that you shovel by the pound to reach your car in the morning. The morning of Chad’s departure, while hiking with Manny on a headland just south of the airport, we watched his plane fly overhead while also watching a nasty storm come in from the East and just barely managed to outpace it in order to return to the car undoused. Along the way, Manny also had a close encounter with a herd of dogs protecting a herd of sheep up the path from us such that we quickly altered our course and safely proceeded away from the clanging sheep bells and barking dogs.

Our next adventure here was to the Festa dei Vini Novelli which celebrated the new wines of the season. I recently learned that the grapes harvested in the fall are put through a quick fermentation process that keeps in a bit of the gasses to produce, in just a matter of months, a light fizzy wine known as the new wine of the year, or “vino novello.” In the tiny town of Milis, about two hours south of here on the west coast, they have an annual festival to celebrate the new wines and, for a small fee, you can purchase a souvenir glass in a handy wine pouch, which you wear around your neck. Then, you can fill your glass at each cantina’s booth with a taste of this year’s product. It was quite a jolly affair such that we had intended to purchase a few bottles for the upcoming Thanksgiving feast but, by the end of all the tastings, forgot to actually buy any. Lucky for us, our local wine shop carried a few of our favorites from the festival. We had yet another wonderful agriturismo experience that evening closer to the coast of Oristano, where we had fresh fish caught by Mimmo, one of the proprietors. The next morning, his wife, Giovanna, served us fresh yogurt and homemade cake flavored with orange zest accompanied by giant hot cappuccinos, which we drank by the fire in the breakfast room. This fueled us for our windy hike out to the headland just down the coast. Our friend, Rachael, and her dog accompanied us for the weekend and the two dogs had a ball racing around the watchtower and the tip of the peninsula and then following Chad up to the top.

Happily, we relaxed all day Monday, as it was Veteran’s Day and Chad was off from work, before heading to the airport to pick up Andrea and Charley after their brief visit to Rome. We had a wonderful visit with them and, despite some chilly, wet weather, managed to get in a beautiful hike on Caprera to the watchtower with Massimo, a friend who is a guide for the park, as well as a drive along the panoramic road around La Maddalena. Sadly, then, the weather began to deteriorate and we had a series of chilly, rainy days, one of which included hail pelting against the windows, scaring our jittery pup. But, we made the most of it and visited the nuraghe of Arzachena, drove out to Punta Sardegna, and had a grand roadtrip down to the Capo Falcone peninsula to see the Pisan watchtower and the old tuna fishing town of Stintino with its many colorful boats tucked into its harbors . According to the rainy weather, lunch was usually the day’s centerpiece and we found many cozy restaurants where we sampled insalata di mare, prosciutto with pecorino cheese, gnochetti sardi, and zuppa gallurese amidst the occasional pizza and hearty salad. And, we ended each day back at home with a fire in the fireplace to warm us back up after our wanderings. As Charley and Andrea had quite an early start on Sunday and quite a long day of traveling to follow, we decided to stay at Le Macine, a small agriturismo in Loiri, just south of the airport in Olbia. After arriving to find the place dark and with no one home, we were a bit concerned, but a friendly woman soon came hustling out and explained that she had been without power during the storms and was scrambling to get ready for us. Soon, we were in our cozy rooms set up with a bottle of wine and glasses for the four of us. She explained that we would have to eat in the kitchen as the heat hadn’t been on in the main dining room and it was quite cold. So, we sat around her little table in front of the fire, Manny at our feet, and had fantastic homemade ricotta ravioli, pomegranate salad, and suckling pig roasted with branches of myrtle. She also served fegato (liver) which we politely tasted and then tried to feed to Manny, who turned his nose up in favor of the accompanying fried artichokes. This was all a welcome feast after a blustery (in the Mediterranean sense) day of walking around Olbia, looking in neat old churches and down skinny cobblestone streets. After a bit of exploring, we headed up to Cabu Abbas, an old nuraghic site just outside of the city and sought refuge behind the old stone walls of the complex after being blasted by the winds. The vista was worth the exposure, as there was visible snow on the mountains down south and the sun was glistening on their white tops. Just before sunset, we headed south to San Teodoro, famed for its large lagoons full of an array of birds including pink flamingos! With the clearing skies, the sunset was beautiful and richly colored over the mountains behind us and was a perfect ending to a week of adventures before relaxing back at the agriturismo.

The next morning was beautiful and bright and so we set off for a hike on Capo Figaro, just north of Golfo Aranci, the major ferry port. This was, of course, after Chad kindly awoke in the wee hours to deliver Andrea and Charley to the airport, while I slept on and awaited his return. The hike was beautiful and afforded views of more snow-capped peaks and hidden bays along the peninsula in the shadow of the dramatic Isola Tavolara. And then, we returned to our quiet little house after a very full week.

After many guests and weekend trips, we had planned on staying at home for the long weekend after Thanksgiving, but saw good weather in the forecast and decided to take the chance and head south to the mountains of Barbagia, where we’d been in the spring and had been wanting to return to in order to hike to the Gola su Gorrupu, known as the “Grand Canyon of Sardegna.” So, after a day of recovery from Thursdays feasting, we packed a few clothes and some picnic supplies for our hike and headed out on Saturday morning under glorious bright sunshine. Unfortunately, the warmer weather during the week had melted the snow that we had seen from Olbia, but the scenery was still quite striking. The hike to the gorge was incredible, taking us along a wooded path that eventually led to a stream bed and to the very narrow passage in the rocks known as the “gola” or throat of the gorge. Limestone boulders lined the gorge, their bright white contrasting against the deep greens of the surrounding vegetation. Some of the trees were actually changing color, making it look autumnal. It was quite a hike and helped us to work up a good appetite for our agriturismo dinner that night. Along the drive on the way back, the colors of the sunset were spectacular, causing us to pull off the side of the road several times in order to try to capture it on camera, but the pictures only hint at the scale of the drama of color and mountains. We had stayed at Agriturismo Didone in the spring and, upon arrival that trip, had came upon Giovanni butchering the lamb that we were to eat that night for supper. Dinner that night was fantastic, and Giovanni and Katy were very gracious hosts, such that we were eager to return there and see them again. This time, rather than lamb, we had what Giovanni described as “la pancha,” or the stomach of lamb and pig, both of which were a bit difficult to look at, but tasted very good. We didn’t make much of a dent in the serving and had to explain that this was our first time to try such a dish. Giovanni replied by saying that perhaps it takes a bit of getting used to.

The next morning, we awoke to rain and puzzled about what to do with our day. At first, we set off to see the famous Grotto Ispinigoli, which supposedly contained the world’s second biggest stalagmite at 38 meters, but, upon arrival, we saw a sign that said, “Next showing: tomorrow.” We wondered how long that sign had been there. The view from the entrance, however, was beautiful and we got to see the clouds moving out over the mountains to reveal a rainbow and the promise of what looked like it could be quite a nice rest of the day. From there, we set out along the Strada Orientale Sarda, a twisty road along the mountaintops that was built in the 1850’s by coal miners, an incredible feat for the time. In search of yet another cave that we’d read about, we headed off the main road down an even twistier, more narrow road to a trailhead through the Codula Illune (Valley of the Moon). This road should really have been named the Strada dei Animali as it was full of cows, goats, sheep, and pigs, causing much distraught howling from the back of our car. The valley did feel quite lunar as we hiked amongst large boulders along the river valley until the water disappeared underground into part of the large underground cave system that originated at the coast. Along the way, we discovered a sort of shepherd’s camp tucked in a cave complete with a covered porch outside and a wooden ramp from one level to the next. While enjoying another picnic on the rocks, we watched dark clouds moved in and warily contemplated driving back on the twisty roads in rain, but we somehow beat the rain on foot and even for the drive back and returned to a beautiful sunset in Palau.

I forgot to mention that, on the morning we left, we were discussing how to make fresh ricotta cheese with Giovanni and he then disappeared briefly, returning with a bottle of warm sheep’s milk which had had undoubtedly just obtained. He also produced a small jar of something called “calio,” which I later learned means “to curdle,” and comes from the stomach of a cow. This, he told me, was the REAL way to make ricotta – using lemon juice was for the inexperienced. So, as I write this, I am waiting for the milk to curdle in yet another Italian cooking/science experiment.

I think that brings me up to the present. This has been quite a busy period, but it is all in an effort to pack in as much as we possibly can before we have to leave here in February. There will certainly be a sustained period of absorption of all of these experiences long after we depart, as things are happening too quickly now to fully take them in. That said, we are looking forward to December’s ski trip up to northern Italy with friends and will likely put together the next travelogue edition shortly after we return in the New Year. In the meantime, we hope everyone has wonderful holidays with friends and family, will miss being with you, and very much look forward to hearing about the feasting and visiting to come.

25 Ottobre

2007-10-22T05:44:00.000-07:00

Fall is upon us in Sardegna and the mornings have brought chilly weather and steam rising off the still-warm Mediterranean. The days are still sunny and bright, but there is a little edge in the air that reminds us that it is no longer summer. That said, we truly were able to experience fall recently on a trip to Garmisch, Germany and were reminded of how beautiful fall’s colors can be and how much we have missed the change in seasons since living away from New England for the last few years. It was enchanting to see the reds and yellows of giant deciduous trees reflected in tranquil mountain lakes settled beneath the snow-capped Bavarian Alps. The magic of the mountains was enhanced by the presence of perfectly-placed mountain huts to which you could arrive after several hours of hiking and enjoy a bowl of borscht, a mass (a frosty mug) of Dunkel or Hefeweissen (the local dark or light wheat beer), and a brez’n (delicious doughy pretzels which I tried to recreate at home with somewhat gooey success).

Generally, our days there started with a walk into town, passing by the verdant green fields dotted with sheep clanging their bells and picturesque wooden hay-drying huts on our way to what became our favorite local Backerei to get a pastry and cappuccino. We decided that the Germans must really like nuts and seeds while surveying an impressive array of hearty looking rolls containing things from pumpkin seeds to chili peppers and beet juice. We stuck to the sweeter types, opting for cherry turnovers and poppy seed-swirled rolls. Then, we would strike off on the day’s hike, walking along perfectly-maintained paths criss-crossing the mountains with not an ounce of trash along the way (a welcome relief from Sardegna), until we eventually reached Partnach Alm or Elmau Alm Hutte or one of the other afore-mentioned mountain huts. There, we would relax in the sun at a picnic table on the deck and eat a tasty meal while enjoying the surrounding mountain views. Usually, we were able to obtain an English menu, but, on one particular afternoon there were none to be found and the only words we were able to decipher were wurst (sausage) and kartopfel (potato). While these were components of nearly every dish, we couldn’t quite figure out the differences between them. Thankfully, a friendly couple sharing our picnic table offered to help us and proved to be much more adept at English than they gave themselves credit for. Even so, I somehow wound up with Leberknodel soup – a giant liver dumpling floating in broth, which was not exactly the knodel I’d hoped for, but was surprisingly tasty. This couple was a great example of the many middle-aged hikers we saw on the trail who tackled climbs that challenged even our young, spry legs. We were most impressed by the jolly, ruddy-cheeked older folks who greeted us with “Gruss-gott” as we crossed paths. Not really knowing what this meant at first, we simply returned the greeting, but soon began using it ourselves as it always elicited a smile from passersby. We were relieved to later learn that it is simply another way to say “hello” that is specific to Bavaria.

While most days we started out from our hotel and got right on one of the many nearby trails, one morning we indulged and took one of the many ski lifts, the Olympiabahn, partway up and began our hike from there. The lift originated at the Stadium built for the 1936 Olympics by Hitler, who merged the towns of Garmisch and Partenkirchen for the games. It was a little eery to walk around the stadium and think of the history of this area. Once on the lift, the views from above were amazing including a favorite scene of a man pitchforking hay into one of the drying huts tucked amongst hummocky green hills and black and white goats clanging their brass bells.

The many miles hiked were absolutely worth it to be able to see sights like the Partnach gorge, reached after switchbacking down a steep trail towards the rushing river. We followed a narrow path along the rocks that was barely one person wide, dripping with moisture and with sunlight filtering down through the vibrant leaves far above the rocky gorge. Another day, we passed by the Reisersee, a mirror-like mountain lake reflecting the colorful leaves of the trees surrounding it and with a picturesque Bavarian lodge at one end. I visited another lake solo while Chad went to see the former concentration camps and museum in Dachau and enjoyed grand views of the Zugspitze, Germany’s highest peak at 2962 meters above the Eibsee (“see” is German for lake). And, we had to see a castle while there, so we hiked up to the Elmauschloss which we found out was not, in fact, an ancient castle, but was constructed in 1913 by a wealthy artist as a retreat for his friends. It then burned and was recently reconstructed as a luxury hotel. At $5,000, you and your friends can rent the Grand Suite, encompassing the entire top floor of the castle. We only made it as far as the lobby. Our final day, we packed in one last hike up to St. Andrew’s Hutte, an impressively short but steep climb a wonderful view 1084 meters up, noticing along the way that the leaves were even brighter than they had been upon our arrival just five days before.

Every evening, without fail, we enjoyed the soothing, bubbling jets of the outdoor hot-tub at our hotel, reinvigorating our tired limbs just enough to be able to walk into town for dinner. From the lodge, we walked past crisp white stucco buildings with dark wooden half-timbers defining their heavy roofs and balconies filled with overflowing window-boxes of bright pink and red geraniums into the pedestrian zone of Garmisch where we had been greeted on our first day with a performance of a genuine oompah band complete with a tuba player and costumed musicians in leather shorts, tall woolen socks and smart felt hats. Despite my German heritage, the cuisine doesn’t exactly agree with my stomach, so we instead found an array of Chinese, Japanese, Indian, and Greek food amongst a few dinners of traditional Bavarian fare. Our favorite spot of these (don’t mind the name) was the Café Mukkefucke where we tried the apfelstruedel and weinerschnitzel just to get a taste of the authentic.

And, as we were in Bavaria during Oktoberfest, we had to enjoy the festivities in Munich for at least one day. We took the train from Garmisch, arriving in the city just in time for the noon playing of the famous glockenspiel in the Marienplatz (the historic center), pushing through the crowds to see the carved wooden figurines turning around high up in the clock tower. From there, we headed to the Theresienwiese or Wies’n fairgrounds, to meet up with some friends at the famous Hofbrau house. This was one of many giant tents set up for Oktoberfest which was filled with beer-drinking, sausage-eating, merry folks and stages full of oompah bands. It was quite a scene with more people standing on tables than sitting, waitresses impressively carrying 6-8 liters of beer at a time in heavy krugs (liter-sized thick glass mugs) and repeated “prost-ing” with people we’d just met, but who seemed to take to us rather quickly. We had read that there was a special word, “Wiesenbekanntschaft,” to describe friends made at Oktoberfest and now we began to understand its meaning as we left with several email addresses and pictures of new acquaintances. It was a bit like a giant fraternity party, but people were generally better behaved and we managed to leave without any beer-soaked clothing.

Nonetheless, a few hours and a few masses later, we emerged in a bit of a beer-induced fog to investigate the rest of the fair. The grounds outside were filled with carnival games, stomach-dropping rides, and all kinds of fair food from brez’n to wurst to steckerlfisch (fish roasted on stick and served whole wrapped in newspaper which I wasn’t quite brave enough to try). And finally, we left the Weis’n and walked back through the city, stopping by the famous Viktualenmarket filled with local fruits, meats, cheeses, and assorted crafts before collapsing onto the train for the long ride home. It was quite a day.

And, finally we returned to Palau after almost a week’s vacation, having gained a new appreciation for the German tourists here that often frustrate us with their brusque impatient style after experiencing the cleanly efficiency the pervades Bavaria in contrast with the slow pace of la dolce vita here. Not to have too much time to absorb our new experiences, we began the following week with a diving excursion to Lavezzi, an island off of Corsica that is famous for its giant Cernia (grouper). We had been awaiting a calm day with little swell to venture out there and we lucked out on Columbus Day and had a great dive where we looked eye-to-eye with these giant fish.

We got back just in time for Chad to rush off to the airport to pick up his parents who had freshly arrived from New Hampshire. Our adventures with them included a daytrip back to Corsica to visit the city of Bonifaccio and eat fantastic fish soup and peppercorn steak on a sun-filled terrace in the old city, a boat trip with our landlord to see the archipelago and do a bit of snorkeling in the famous turquoise waters of the Porta de la Madonna, and the usual patented tours of the Friday Palau farmer’s market followed by the panoramic drive of La Maddalena and tour of Isola Capera across the causeway. We also packed in trips to Punta Sardegna to see the whimsical houses tucked in the rocks and the hobbit-like Porto Rafael with its tiny inviting gates and garden paths and also to Castelsardo to see the 12th century Genoese castle perched high above the water, swinging by some natural hot springs on the way back in nearby Casteldoria that I vowed to return to for a good soak in the near future.

And for the final leg of the Olcotts’ visit, we headed to Tuscany where we reunited after they had a weekend cooking course in Florence with their new best friend, Claudio, the chef, who taught them how to prepare delightful Tuscan dishes ranging from roast venison with chestnuts to a sauce of local wild porcini mushrooms. Upon our reunion, we were given a tour of Claudio’s and served steaming hot cappuccinos to help us to warm up in the crisp fall Tuscan air. From there, we were off to Siena, zigzagging along windy roads over the dusty Sienese cypress-dotted hills and ogling over the beautiful scenery. There, we found our way through medieval streets to the famous Piazza del Campo, dominated by the 14th century Torre del Mangia, to a sunny spot for lunch. Then, it was off to the Basilica San Domenico, home of the mummified head of St. Catherine of Siena, which we had seen on our bike trip here four years ago but Chad felt the need to re-view – a ghastly vision indeed. Quite chilled by this point by the wind and the sight of St. Catherine, we were ready to return to the lovely Agriturismo Villa San Andrea, sited on a hilltop in the tiny village of Fabbrica, where we were to spend the night. It was built on the site of a 13th century castle that was destroyed in WWII, with only one guard tower and a part of the outer wall remaining. There, we enjoyed a stroll through the vineyards, now mostly emptied of their grapes after the recent harvest, though we did manage to find a few remaining deep purple bunches with surprisingly sweet fruit, and also some very noisy pigs which weren’t too eager to have their picture taken. A lovely sunset there with ethereal painterly pink and melon-colored clouds capped off the day and gave us a few moments in the quiet darkness to rest before dinner. Our dinner was at Ristorante Macerata tucked amidst olive trees along a long dirt road not too far from our hotel. There, we feasted on roast suckling pork, venison in red wine sauce, fresh pasta with more famous porcini mushrooms and ricotta-stuffed ravioli with brightly flavored pesto accompanied by wonderful local red wine and followed by Schiacciata alla Fiorentina, a traditional Florentine cake of puff pastry and cream. It could not have been improved upon.

The next morning, the Olcotts were off to the train station in Florence to head north to Munich before the long flight back across the Atlantic and Chad and I headed south to the hilltop town of Montalcino, famous for its Brunello wine. We had a yet another fantastic Tuscan meal of herb-crusted rabbit and hearty bean soup with glasses of Brunello and Vino Rosso at a cozy trattoria that provided a moment’s respite from the chilling winds blowing through the stony streets of town. This was followed by a bit of wine tasting at a wine shop inside the old fortress which dominated one end of town. The proprietress there was quite patient with us and helped us to choose a few bottles to return home with and let us sample those that we could only afford to sip. After strolling down the skinny streets, colorful flags whipping in the wind along the way, we were in need of a bit of caffeination before the twisty drive back towards Livorno and stopped at the cozy Café Fiaschetteria, dating back to 1888 where we sipped café on plush velvet chairs and shared a bit of cocoa-dusted torta.

Our drive back to Livorno was perfectly timed to enjoy a glowing sunset over the Tuscan hills after one final stop to visit the Romanesque white marble Abby Sant’Antimo where we sadly learned we were too early to hear the monks sing their evening vespers and couldn’t stay long enough without missing our ferry home. It was nonetheless a lovely church settled among olive trees along twisting paths beneath the town of Castlenuovo dell’Abate picturesquely sitting on top of a hill inside the old castle wall. Our trip finally ended with wine and pizza on the ferry while rereading the Tuscan entries from the journal of our honeymoon bike trip four years ago and commenting both what a wonderful trip that was but also how free we were in traveling by car to explore this hilly country so easily and to be able to bring back its wonderful wines as well. And now, we are home on our island enjoying the quiet of fall.

11 Settembre 2007

2007-09-11T06:05:00.000-07:00

I am just getting settled back in to life in Sardinia after a few weeks back in the U.S. to visit friends and family in Maine and New Hampshire and then a brief trip to Missouri to see my grandparents. It was my first trip back since coming here about a year ago and it took a bit to get used to everyone speaking English and not thinking that it was strange. Roads felt wide and slow and grocery stores grand and spread out. Houses all with their own yards looked luxurious, especially filled with summer’s bright flowers. It is funny the things you notice only by contrast. Having left the U.S. last August feeling a bit cynical about the fast pace of life and the focus on constant advancement and acquisition, I was ready to embrace a slower pace of life, but now I have come back around to appreciate the efficiency of the U.S. as well as the pleasantries of the people and the general level of courtesy afforded even to strangers.

After a long series of flights back over seas, we returned to the Olcotts' house in New Castle to the always-delightful pot of welcome-home haddock chowder, which we had a few bites of before falling hard to sleep with the fresh Atlantic breezes keeping us cool through the night. Our first day back began with the squawking of gulls and the honking of foghorns across the Piscataqua channel, which finally roused us from sleep. The afternoon required a plunge into the chilly waters despite the admonitions of a nearby lobsterman regarding the powerful currents just off the rocks. He obviously didn’t realize that we didn’t really intend to swim, but just to quickly plunge and then scramble out on the rocks. It was a wonderful way to reinvigorate before the evening’s reunion of families over delicious thick-cut American steaks, fresh succulent summer corn, and juicy farm stand tomatoes all followed by a much-anticipated wild Maine blueberry pie. Matthew and Lindsey hunted for crabs and sea glass on the rocks while the adults enjoyed cocktails on the point and celebrated Chad’s birthday and the coming together of families after a long year apart.

We ventured up to Maine a few days later and visited many familiar places including the Kennebunk beaches where we ran in and out of the waves with the kids and watched little Katherine clothe herself in seaweed and sand while soaking her floral-printed cotton jumper in her own personal tide-pool that Matthew and Lindsey had made especially for her. We packed in many visits with friends and family including a trip for Chad down to Boston for a Red Sox game and one to Portland for a few meetings with potential employers come spring when we intend to move back. At the end of our first week, we had a cookout with friends from UNH, which made us more excited about the prospect of moving back. Then, the brothers Olcott and their girlfriends arrived at various points over the weekend which we spent lazing about on the grass in the afternoon sun, reading books on the point, and eating and drinking wonderful things, as is the custom at the Olcotts. We ended the weekend with giant ice cream cones at The Ice House on an uncharacteristically chilly grey afternoon and then headed back up to Maine to the house at Granite Point, continuing the ping-pong of vacation visiting arrangements.

The second week, we fit in the requisite reef hunt for baby lobsters at Turbat’s Creek and counted nine in total hiding in the tide pools. This was following a lovely evening spent just across the creek with good family friends, the invitation having been extended at the end of a beautiful day of sailing with my dad on their boat. We sailed just about out to St. Anne’s, remembering our wedding there four years ago now, and then returned to the creek where we were engaged while camping on Vaughan’s Island. After drinks that night, we continued our wedding reminiscence tour by having dinner on the Cape Porpoise Pier next to Pier 77, the site of our reception.

All-too quickly, we reached the end of our Maine vacation and said tearful goodbyes only tempered by upcoming fall visits by both families. From there, I continued on to St. Louis to visit my grandparents and Chad returned home. I survived the Midwestern summer heat and humidity for a few days and packed in visits to old friends there as well as getting in plenty of visiting with family. And then, after 4 flights totaling 24 hours of travel, I returned to Il Faraglione to a beautiful summer evening with Chad and a very happy Manny who nearly knocked me over with kisses.

Fortunately, I returned home over a 4-day weekend, most of which I spent recovering from jetlag. We reveled in having virtually no plans for the weekend after such a busy vacation and spent most of our time riposing on the terrazza, taking long walks, and occasionally swimming at the beach. We had calm enough weather one day for a kayak trip to Isola Santo Stefano, where we climbed atop an old fort for a magnificent view of Palau and Caprera. The week brought the start of regatta season here out of the Porto Cervo Yacht Club (where the ritziest Sardinian visitors hang out), and I was pleasantly surprised one afternoon to find that the course crossed right in front of our house. I heard wild flapping of sails and went outside to see giant beautiful sailing yachts tacking close enough that I could hear the voices of the captains shouting instructions to their crew.

Just as I was getting a little too comfortable in my relaxed daily routine of being home with lots of time on my hands, I got a call from a woman at the Centro Ricerca Delfina on Caprera to see if I wanted to go dolphin monitoring the next morning. As I was just about to hop on the ferry to ride the loop road around La Maddalena and then meet friends for the weekly Thursday night gathering for swimming and dinner at Punta Tegge (flat rock), I had to scramble around to collect my camera, warm clothes, sunscreen and a quick overnight kit so that I could stay with a friend in La Madd overnight and meet the dolphin research team at 6am! Thus began the marathon of events from which I think I have finally recovered, it now being Tuesday. The dolphin-watching trip was fantastic, starting with a beautiful sunrise and then surprisingly close views of a small pod of half a dozen dolphins – mothers with their new calves. Just as we were heading in to the dock, we spotted a dolphin right in the harbor and followed it for another half-hour or so, finally returning around 1230 – 6 ½ hours later! That afternoon, there happened to be a BBQ on the base which I had promised to attend, so I rushed off to that for some much-needed sustenance after only a café and pastry for breakfast (back around 6am). After returning by ferry and having a small stretch of respite at home, I got re-organized and headed back out the door for a friend’s sushi party on La Madd. Normally, I might have pleaded exhaustion and made my regrets, but sushi is a tough commodity to come by in Sardinia and this was a rare treat. Needless to say, I slept hard that night, but then awoke early again to hop back on the ferry to La Madd to go diving for the morning. We were hoping to go to Corsica, but had to turn back due to strong winds (nothing new around here), and instead ended up doing our first decompression dive on a submerged pillar rock covered in gorgeous red corals and colorful sponges, and with every crack hiding giant fish - one type called Mustea, so named for its mustache-like barbles. One might hope to return from this adventure and sprawl in the hammock for the rest of the day. But, we were expected that afternoon for a horseback riding expedition at Capo d’Orso. We recharged with a couple shots of espresso after brief naps and were on our way. While initially less than thrilled to set off on another trip, we were delightfully surprised by the ride which provided panoramic views of the archipelago from a narrow trail hardly passable by human feet.

And, finally, Sunday we riposed, periodically getting up for a short walk or to have something to eat, letting our sore, limp limbs recover from multiple jostling boat rides, the pressure of many meters of water upon us and the exhaustion brought on from breathing stale air out of SCUBA tanks, and the bouncing up and down atop horses working their way along a rocky trail. Now, we enter fall here, signaled by fewer cars in our lot since the Italian schools have started necessitating the return of many of the summer visitors to the mainland, smaller crowds at the beaches, and shorter lines at the market. The nights and mornings are noticeably cooler and the light wanes nearly an hour and a half earlier than at summer’s start. We look forward to many fall visitors and to getting back into the rhythm of things after a busy summer.

9 Agosto

2007-08-09T06:30:00.000-07:00

We have just wrapped up a wonderful visit with Chad’s brother, Tom. It was filled with lovely evenings on the terrazza drinking and eating plenty (including a fantastic watermelon seed-spitting contest one night), many late afternoon swims and snorkels off the rocks and beach near our house, and many adventures around Sardegna. Yet another in the series of weary travelers, Tom arrived on a Wednesday evening, though we expected him on Monday. So much for the efficiency of air travel – a two-day delay is most impressive. Fortunately, he had friends in New York, where he got stuck overnight, and only lost a couple of days with us plus another half day of napping upon arrival. Once a bit recovered, we set about trying to pack in as much as possible during his visit. This included a weekend trip to Bosa and Alghero complete with loads of photo-snapping opportunities for Tom and another visit to Mario’s wine shop (which we first visited on our bike trip there last spring), this time bringing home a bottle of his home-made Malvasia wine. The Grotto di Nettuno was our final stop and the whimsical forms of the stalagmites and stalactites were worth the many steps we had to descend and then ascend to reach the cave’s entrance.

Other adventures of the week included a hike to Punta Sardegna to see the tile-roofed houses tucked into the rocks and for a refreshing swim and picnic at Cala Trana, a morning kayak to Capo d’Orso to capture the rare wind-sculpted rocks on film, and a trip to La Maddalena for the festival of the island’s patron Saint, Santa Maria Maddalena. Apparently, many years ago, a statue of Santa Maria Maddalena was put on a ship from Corsica destined for La Maddalena when a storm overturned the ship. The statue was assumed to be lost, but, at that very moment, the wind picked up from the west (the Maestrale we’ve become too familiar with) and carried the floating wooden statue safely ashore to La Maddalena where it was installed in the local church. Each year, this statue is taken from the church and put onto a boat at the port. There is then a procession of boats led by the one carrying the statue. They all eventually return to the port and the statue is returned to the church, thus re-enacting the legend of Santa Maria Maddalena. After watching the procession from the church, we headed to the pier with take-out pizza and beer and watched the boat parade go by. We headed back to Palau just in time for an evening swim while watching the fireworks which marked the end of the night’s festivities. To cap it off, there was phosphorescence in the water so that we had light from both the water and the sky.

Later in the week, we had a private tour of the archipelago on our landlord, Andrea’s, boat so that Tom could take some pics. We started along Punta Sardegna and then headed out to Spargi for a snorkel and swim, then on to the Budelli-Razzoli-Santa Maria trio to see the amazing turquoise pool in the protection of the three islands. From there, we found a sheltered spot to anchor and Andrea brought out a delightful lunch of insalata mista (a hearty Italian salad of tuna, olives, tomatoes, mozzarella, and boiled eggs) and wine made by his son, Francesco. Our lunch conversation, though limited by the language difference, was punctuated by exclamations about the Paradise-like qualities of the islands and how this was truly "la dolce vita" (as declared by Andrea while reclining in the sun after our meal). We tried our hand at fishing in the afternoon, using bits of stale bread unsuccessfully, save one small occhiata (a flat silvery fish), and then eventually made our way back to Spargi for another dip and then finally home. We arrived at the port at the same moment Chad returned from work on the ferry.

And, no visit would be complete without the obligatory panoramic drive around La Maddalena. We tacked on a visit to Caprera to see the old fortresses at Candeo and all of its secret tunnels and watch-towers hidden in the rocks. There is a whole other world to be discovered out there. We also had to fit in a dinner at an agriturismo, this time trying one near to the ferry in Olbia, where we were later departing for the mainland. This was the best agriturismo dinner yet and was complete with porcheddu (roast suckling pig), delicious wine from the fields surrounding the dining room over which we watched the rising moon, and rich fresh ricotta with bitter honey for desert. We are hoping to return there for an overnight stay in the fall to see the grape harvest and wine making.

Then, we were all off on the ferry to Civitavecchia on the mainland. From there, Chad and I headed to Giardini Naxos in Sicily for our friends’ wedding and Tom took a train to Rome for his flight home. Yes, we took a ferry to Civitavecchia and then drove ALL the way down the coast to Calabria and then took another ferry to Sicily. Let’s just say there are 110 tunnels between Civitavecchia and Giardini Naxos and we had plenty of time to count them all! Giardini is a lovely town where black volcanic rocks tumble down into the sea in front of a backdrop of the always-smoking Mount Etna. We arrived early to the church and got to watch the arrival of the other guests while listening to gorgeous vocal music pouring out of the church. Elegantly dressed Italians emerged out of tiny brightly colored Volkswagons and Fiats, all sporting large sunglasses to dim the late afternoon sun. The Americans made a nice showing as well, as the men were in their dress white uniforms and looked quite dapper. Dan and Ily were a regal couple with Dan sporting a shiny sword with his uniform and Ily glowingly beautiful.

The reception was at an old villa in the hills and was right out of a princess storybook complete with candlelit grounds staffed by crisply uniformed waiters floating amidst the crowd serving flutes of champagne and an array of delectable antipasti. Once we were seated, we noticed menus on our plates that listed four delicious-sounding dishes. We assumed we would choose from these, but then they started arriving, one after the other: sesame seared salmon, toasted walnut risotto, fresh ravioli, and a fennel seafood terrine. Then, following a very sweet toast by Ily’s dad to his only daughter, her brother surprised her by singing an old Sicilian song to her in a gorgeous voice, the existence of which no one had previously known. It was not to be believed! And then the cake came out – the biggest cake I’ve even seen, which Dan proudly cut with his sword. And, this wasn't even desert proper. For that, we had to go upstairs where tiers of marzipan candies, lemon cakes, fruit ices, and chocolate mousse lined the entire balcony. The festivities went late into the evening until we were all quite exhausted from such an amazing party.

And, 110 more tunnels and two more ferries later, we returned home to the throngs of tourists that have now descended upon Sardinia. Every night, we watch million-dollar yachts go by, wondering which ones might be ferries and which are private boats and who the people are that can afford such extravagance! Similarly, the beaches are packed with leathery, tanned bodies sprawled upon every inch of available sand. Now, we are about to return to the US for the first time in a year and are eagerly looking forward to seeing many greatly-missed friends and family. We will also look forward to returning here in the fall when things will be a bit more tranquil once again.

19 Luglio

2007-07-19T02:06:00.000-07:00

We have just returned from a weekend in Oristano, the province a couple of hours south of here on the west coast of Sardegna. We arrived Friday evening and, after a bit of hunting around, found the B&B La Mariposa in the tiny town of Sedilo. As we drove into town, we saw throngs of people headed to the stadium for L’Ardia, the annual horserace at the Santuario di Costantino and the reason for our journey. Upon our arrival, Santina, the proprietress of the B&B, quickly ushered us inside, introduced us to all manner of aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews gathered in their living room, and invited us to sit with them to watch the race on TV. The race was held two times each year and was scheduled to be repeated in the morning, so we were content to see the end of tonight’s race on TV, complete with a bit of local commentary. Soon, we were enjoying cold beers and eating delicious almond cookies, both of which were most refreshing after a long drive, and were conversing in broken Italian with our new-found family. By some crazy stroke of luck, we soon found out, we just happened to be staying at the B&B owned by the parents of the President of this year’s events. Santina proudly told us about all the hard work their son had been doing to prepare for the race.

A bit later, Santina’s husband Mario returned and recommended a restaurant on the edge of town where we could get some dinner, advising us to get to bed early tonight as the race started first thing in the morning. Before we knew it, we were packed into his little green Fiat zipping down the narrow streets of Sedilo to the Bar Alcatraz. Mario left us to have a tasty dinner of pizza with casizzolu cheese (made from milk from a special breed of Sardinian cow only found in this area), and, of course, some wine to help us along towards a good night’s sleep, but not before making absolutely sure we knew our way back. We were most grateful.

While we had been warned that the band would arrive at 7am just outside our door to start the procession, we didn’t know there would be shotgun blasts for accompaniment. This got us up and out of bed quite quickly, at which time I opened our front door and almost knocked over a trumpet player. Santina and Mario, seeing us sleepily peeking out of the door, motioned us over, saying, “Venite con noi,” or “Come with us.” We hurriedly grabbed a backpack with a few supplies for the day and blindly followed the parade, not really knowing where we were going or when we’d be back, but happy to have guides.

The day’s event began with a blessing of the riders at the local church. As L’Ardia is a festival meant to celebrate Santo Costantino, there is great religious significance. Apparently, the race celebrates Emperor Constantine’s battle with Maxenzio in 312 AD in Rome, after which he saw a vision that told him to spread Christianity. Legend has it that he was promoted to St. Constantine in or near the town of Sedilo, hence the Sactuario and the L’Ardia celebration here. At the church, the priest blessed the lead rider, known as the Pandela, and his two accompanying riders, the Pandeleddas, and presented them with bandieras, or flags. Meanwhile, the older men of the tows, dressed in black with the traditional squat hat which we have come to call the “Italian old man’s hat,” continued to frequently fire their shotguns, raining pieces of the empty casings and leaves from the overarching trees down onto the crowds below. Amidst all of this, the horses were amazingly calm. There were over 100 cavallieri, mostly teenage boys from the town, astride beautiful horses of all colors and patterns. They all stood behind the elegantly dressed and well-poised Pandela and his Pandeleddas during the ceremony. It is a position of great honor to be chosen as the year’s Pandela and it showed.

From the church, the horses and crowd proceeded to the Santuario, a walled sanctuary around the church of St. Constantine. The crowd arrived first and lined the course, waiting in anticipation. We climbed high up on the hill with Santina and Mario leading us and introducing us to nearly everyone we saw along the way. A few moments, later, the race began with the lead three riders tearing down the hill through the arched gate leading into the Santuario and then running up to the church with all the other riders following. Just four years ago, a rider was killed as his horse ran into the side of the stone arch during the race, as the goal of the race is for the following riders to try to overtake the Pandela before entering the sanctuary’s walls. Now, the arch has large Styrofoam panels on either side as protection and the riders are much less aggressive. No incidents this year to report. Once at the church, the riders circled around several times, paused a moment, and then raced back down the hill. This was repeated three or four times, all to great applause from the audience. When the races were over, the local priest held a mass for all the riders in the tiny church atop the hill and the crowds perused the stands selling local baskets, woodwork and candies. Santina took me by the hand and guided me through the crowds to see the wares. I felt as though I suddenly had a grandmother I’d never known. After several hours of festivities and celebration, a long-needed café, and many more amaretti (almond cookies), we managed to make our way out of Sedilo, despite the repeated invitation by Santina and Mario to stay and be their guests for the day. We were afraid if we didn’t leave then, we might not ever leave!

From Sedilo, we drove into the Monti Ferru region through beautiful stands of cork and olive trees. We passed Santu Lussurgiu, a town nestled in a dramatic volcanic crater, and Abbasanta, home to many strange nuraghic towers quietly existing out in the fields along the side of the road – only 4,000 years old or so. For lunch, we stopped at a dairy farm turned restaurant in the town of Seneghe, famous for its olive oil and its Bue Rosso organic beef, and sampled both, much to our great delight. The savory offerings of lunch were most welcome after all the sweets of the morning. From there, we continued our drive down to Siamaggiore, where we were staying at an agriturismo, or farmhouse B&B, for the night. We arrived in perfect time for an afternoon riposo, much enhanced by full bellies, unusually warm temperatures, and little sleep the night before. Later, after a long walk through town to work up a bit of an appetite, we enjoyed another wonderful meal with all of the products from the agriturismo’s farm. Teresa, our hostess at Agriturismo Su Livariu, Sardo for “olive trees,” brought out homemade pasta with fresh tomato and mozzarella sauce followed by slices of pork in a delicious vegetable and wine sauce. This was accompanied by an assortment of vegetables from their garden including winter artichokes, sautéed zucchini and bell peppers and a fresh green salad. Just as we were finishing dinner, Teresa’s husband, Franco, returned from the fields where he and a colleague had been cutting hay all day. He was quite a character and we listened as he talked to his friend in Sardo, the local dialect, and quickly realized that we had absolutely no idea what he was saying. It sounded a bit like, “xuxuxu. . . lulululzu.” Our meal finished off with fresh watermelon, also from the garden and gelato frutti di bosco, and of course, a selction of digestivos – limoncello, delicious grapey-tasting mirto, and mandarino. Just as we thought we were done, Franco asked if we wanted to try a special local kind of cheese – it was a little strong, he warned us. Always up for something new, we agreed and he rushed off to the kitchen and returned with a large wheel of soft-looking cheese and some pane carasau, the cracker-like Sardegnan bread. “Don’t look, just eat,” he advised, passing a sample over to Chad, who quickly passed it right back. I had assumed he meant the cheese was moldy, but I soon noticed that it was not moldy, it was MOVING! The cheese was called “salta salta,” which means “jump, jump” because of the vermi crawling around inside. Franco scooped up a large amount and popped it right in his mouth, much to our disbelief. That was certainly a first and we made sure to document it for your viewing pleasure.

Having survived our culinary adventure the night before, though neither of us was brave enough to partake, we awoke to a lovely breakfast laid out by Teresa of homemade bread and jams (pumpkin, lemon, mulberry, and orange), and then headed off to the coast for a hike in the still-cool morning air. Tharros, an ancient Phoenician settlement built on top of an even more ancient nuraghic settlement, sits right on the sea on a peninsula outside the town of Oristano and there is a beautiful path that goes from there out to the lighthouse at the tip. The panoramic views along the path were amazing and unobstructed, mostly because there were no trees, hence the necessary early-morning start and the direct procession to the beach and into the water upon our return. After our hike and a few hours of recovery at the beach, we started our trip back north, taking a previously untraveled inland route for some new scenery. This took us through more cork forests and loads of nuraghe (hence the name the Valle di Nuraghe), including huts and watchtowers. The neatest find of the day, however, were the Domus de Janus, or fairy house nuraghe built right into the side of a cliff on the side of the road that looked like it was formed by an old river bed. They reminded us of Mesa Verde.

Finally, we arrived back home to a lovely calm evening in Palau to watch the sun set over Punta Sardegna and to wonder yet again at how lucky we are to live here for a stretch.

6 Luglio 2007

2007-07-06T02:59:00.000-07:00

Once again, I have waited far too long to catch up on the latest adventures. But, for the first time in awhile, we have actually stayed put for about a month now. Unfortunately, this means we haven’t been taking as many pictures, so this blog will be a bit more word-heavy. Summer has definitely arrived here, complete with hot sun, many tourists, and boats zigzagging through the water in front of our house. We now have to jockey for a spot on our previously private beach and when lounging on the sand, we are likely to hear a bit of French, German, Italian or English (Brits only), depending on the day and the combination of visitors at our condos that week.

The mornings, however, are still quiet and I can let Manny romp down the beach before the sunbathers arrive. One morning recently, I raced down to the rocks by the campground to watch three dolphins swim by. I had spotted them out our window and threw on shoes, grabbed Manny and arrived just in time to see them surface only a few feet away in perfectly glassy seas. It was a truly magical moment that I unfortunately did not capture on film! I have had a few other recent very close encounters with nature here amidst all the hustle and bustle. While working on the computer one afternoon, I heard a thump and went out into the living room to find a small black and yellow sparrow lying on the floor which had flown right into our front window. I grabbed a towel and tossed it over him in order to pick him up and take him outside, but he flew into the window again. This time, no towel was needed and I picked him up with my bare hands and carried him out into a shady spot in the yard, worried that I had scared him to death. I waited and watched, keeping an expectant Manny inside so that he would have a bit of peace to recover. And, sure enough, moments later, he flew off and hasn’t been seen since. Later the same week, I was down at the beach and saw a young crow with wet feathers standing on a rock and heard his mother squawking above. Thinking I would try the same technique, though concerned about his large size, I covered him with my beach towel and waded with him back to shore. Though not injured, he was absolutely calm and let me touch his black shiny feathers during my inspection. As I had to return to our house, another woman on the beach promised to watch him. I later found out he had flown off safely. Similarly, we have enjoyed listening to our resident blackbird sing his heart out on the peak of the house in front of ours while watching from our porch as the sun slowly sets (at nearly 9:30 now) over the fort on Punta Sardegna. He often out-sings the pop music which is broadcast on the radio of the campground bar next door and he seems to have an endless repertoire.

There is a wonderful festive atmosphere to summer here, as the people who have come are all on vacation and a bit of their gleeful freedom is bound to rub off on us year-rounders who supposedly have jobs to attend to during the day. In talking with a few of them, we have produced much consternation over the fact that Chad goes to work for the whole day five days a week and doesn’t come home for lunch! “Peccato,” they say, meaning "too bad". Recently, we have had neighbors from Parma who, each evening, meet Manny at our gate with a fresh crosta di formaggio leftover from the cheese they’ve eaten with lunch, and another neighbor from Naples who invited us over to try his freshly-baked Torta Coprese, a chocolate and almond cake. He then offered to teach us how to make it. “Free cooking lessons, it only costs a smile,” he told us. We have become the collective grandchildren of our complex and have been treated with amazing warmth and hospitality.

In fact, several weeks ago, we tried to include our neighbors in a party we had for some friends leaving here, but they laughed and said they were too old, “Come i nonni,” they said, meaning they were like our grandparents. In preparation for the grande festa, we embarked on an expedition to collect cozze (mussels) off the barrier around the ship at Santo Stefano. They grow in massive clumps there and someone must periodically “clean” them (and then eat them). So, with snorkels and a floating cooler, we collected nearly 10 kg of mussels, ripping them off in clumps with our hands and paint scrapers. Nearly three weeks later, my hands are still healing from the many wounds incurred (and we are still eating leftover frozen cozze!). The other main dish for the evening was Jamaican Jerk Chicken, grilled by Chad. Our landlord and his wife, who joined us for a bit of the party, bearing homemade wine and a delicious pear torte, raved over the unusual flavors and begged us for the recipe. So, this week, armed with a show and tell of all of the particular spices and ingredients, we joined him for a cookout at his house where we had Sardegnan grilled pancetta and salsiccia and a small demonstration of how to prepare Jerk Chicken. It is sometimes easier to communicate via food than through language.

In addition to cozze collecting, I recently went on a clam hunt at some nearby mudflats with my friend, Naomi, in an attempt to provide dinner for that evening. We found many more crabs scuttling over the seemingly empty clam holes and children chasing them than we found actual clams. But, with about 30 of the tiny arselle (of which I collected a grand total of 8), we returned home and supplemented them with store-bought clams for a delicious pasta on the terrazza. Naomi and her husband had invited me to dinner the week before when Chad was in London. On another night while he was away, I decided to have a few Italian friends over for an impromptu dinner of Thai curry (take a look at one of the previous blog entries to read about buying the ingredients). I invited Paola, a marine biologist, and Massimo, a guide for the Parco National de la Maddalena, to try curry, which is not to be found in Sardegna. As they took their first bite, I saw the color rise in their cheeks and watched them down their glasses of water. I had forgotten that the Sardegnan palate does not include particularly spicy food. Nonetheless, they politely cleaned their plates and claimed to have enjoyed it, though it was “un po piccante.”

One expedition we took this month was to the Golfo Orosei, on the east coast of the island. We had friends visiting from San Diego, so we decided to go exploring with them. Arriving at the agriturismo where we were staying, we saw the proprietor butchering a freshly-slaughtered lamb, which we quickly realized would be our supper. The owners were wonderful people who ran a neat inn with only four rooms and made a superb dinner with the lamb, homemade ravioli with fresh ricotta, and house wine from the fall harvest. We enjoyed this immensely, as we had undertaken quite a long hike in the afternoon from one beach to the next. The path ran along the cliff tops above dramatic limestone caves at the water level, which we explored upon our arrival at the second beach. After contemplating hitch-hiking on the tourist boat heading back, we instead bucked up after a refreshing swim and repeated the hour-long hike back to the car. Needless to say, we slept very well after our adventures and a big meal! In the morning, much refreshed, we had a breakfast of fresh yogurt and bread with homemade butter and honey from the farm's bees and departed with a promise to return soon to see more of the area.

Another interesting cultural event we attended recently was a polo match in nearby Baia Sardinia. Somehow acquiring VIP passes by simply showing up and acting as if we were supposed to get them, we were able to rub elbows with the elegantly dressed spectators in the stands and enjoy a nice view of the games. It was an excellent people-watching opportunity, though we didn’t manage to befriend any of them well enough to be invited into their luxury boxes, all of which were stocked with champagne and lovely looking antipasti. Unfortunately, the tournament was cut a bit short by a torrential downpour, so we fled into the nearby restaurant for several cafés until we got the courage up to dash out to the car and head home.

Closer to home, we have finally gotten back under the water and have started diving here. After a quick refresher, Chad was diving again for the first time in 15 years. It’s not a bad place to start again where the water is so clear that you can’t tell how deep it is and there is bright light down to nearly 100 feet below the surface. Half the fun of diving has been exploring the islands in a gommone (the small motorboats used around here). Underwater, we have seen wonderful sea life including the famous red corals of the area, eels, lobsters, octopus, and an amazing number and variety of fish. It is a whole new dimension to the environment here and we are looking forward to seeing much more of it over the summer and into the fall.

In indoor life, Chad has been keeping busy at work, but not too busy to return for an evening swim before dinner and for weekend expeditions. And, I am teaching a biology course online for students from places as far away as Turkey, Germany, and even a few stationed in Iraq and Afghanistan. It has been very interesting to read about their experiences and teaching online has allowed me plenty of time to play outside here and to get to know our new summer neighbors. We are very much looking forward to another month here and also to our upcoming August return to the States, which will be our first trip back since our arrival here.

17 Maggio 2007

2007-05-23T03:02:00.000-07:00

After just a few days back in Sardegna after our trip to Napoli, we set off for the Datca peninsula of Turkey for a week-long sailing expedition followed by a few days in Istanbul. As I had been longing to go to Turkey for many years, fascinated by the human history in that part of the world, this was a very exciting opportunity. We started off with a night in Bodrum, a tourist port about an hour’s flight south of Istanbul, where we saw row upon row of Turkish gulets, the beautiful wooden daytrip boats, set in the harbor next to the Castle of St. Peter, built by the Knights of St. John in the 1400’s apparently using pieces of marble from one of the seven wonders of the ancient world, the 4th c. B.C. tomb built for King Mausalus by his sister and wife, Artemesia. Initially, we were concerned about our complete lack of comprehension of the Turkish language, but our fears were quickly assuaged by the amount of English that we heard spoken, primarily by restaurateurs trying to draw us into the clutches of their establishment before the next heckler had his chance. It was a bit overwhelming, but we eventually settled on a place right on the beach where we had a lovely dinner and watched the ubiquitous Turkish flags flapping in the evening breeze. We decided that it must be a governmental mandate that every boat, business, and flagpole bear a Turkish flag.

The next morning, we caught a ferry to the Greek Island of Kos, where we were scheduled to meet our sailboat. It seems obvious, but somehow it surprised me to be surrounded by not only an unfamiliar language, but unfamiliar letters as well, although I was able to recall a bit from my high school days as a Classics nerd. We took in a bit of Kos including Hippocrates’ plane tree and an amazingly preserved Roman village that wasn’t marked with a even a single sign. There were intact paintings on the walls, beautiful mosaic floors, and dramatic arches of what appeared to have been a bathhouse. It is amazing to find such ancient treasures quietly existing nearly everywhere we have been in Europe. From here, we began our journey with Seascapes on the Vassilis, with Captain Simon at the helm and a crew of four other passengers. Our sister boat, the Anna Maria, had just come in from a week in the Greek Islands and would be joining the Vassilis for the week in Turkey. After getting to know our fellow shipmates over dinner, we spent our first night on the boat getting used to the small quarters and to bumping various limbs into bulkheads and other hard parts of the boat. The next morning, we were off to Turkey, floating over tranquil seas with nary a breeze to justify raising our sails. As we entered into Turkish waters, we lowered our Greek standard and raised the Turkish one, as the two countries don’t have the friendliest of histories with each other. The landscape has an animal-like quality with undulating brown, rocky hillsides punctuated by clusters of white stucco houses plunging down into deep blue Aegean waters.

Our first anchorage was in the small village of Ova Buku, where we enjoyed a lovely walk up the road to the next “town” over before dinner at Ogun’s Place, one of a few seaside tavernas tucked in the cove. The spread of mezzes, or small plates, was wonderful with hummus, sweet chili spread, Coban salatasi (shepherd’s salad) with mint and parsley, and seasoned meatballs which were amusing called lady’s legs. Then, we were all called into the kitchen where we got to choose our main dishes and, though I was already quite full, I managed to still have room for some moussaka. The tavernas here are reminiscent of the beachside places on the Baja peninsula in Mexico with thatched palm roofs overhanging tiled patios surrounded by dangling vines of bougainvillea. We had a beautiful hike the next morning up the ridge overlooking the bay, followed by a quick plunge to cool off before heading off to the next port. It was another warm, still day filled with much reading on the deck and cool drinks in the sun while sadly the sails stayed furled.

Datca, our second anchorage, was a more developed town with many boats in its harbor and a bustling carpet trade on the main street. It was also a longed-for destination for several of the Anna Maria crew who had been anticipating a Turkish bath at the local hamam after spending over a week developing a good salt crust. We contented ourselves with a hot afternoon spent on the beach sprawled out next to a group of women having a picnic, clad in headscarves and long skirts, wondering what they thought of the tourists sunbathing in their bikinis. The hours were punctuated by periodic calls to prayer broadcast from the loudspeakers of the mosque minarets. Turkey is a strange mix of western style and Islamic tradition where calls to prayer often seem all but ignored and Turkish women in short skirts walk along the same streets as those fully covered. Once the heat subsided, we went for a long walk through town along the waterfront and then back through the residential area of town, which contained a curious mixture of apartment buildings interspersed with farm animals such as cows, chickens and goats. With our Turkish phrasebook in tow, we practiced "teshekelur ederem," or thank you, after browsing the local honeys and spices at a few of Datca’s shops, and then returned for evening cocktails on the Vassilis. We had a wonderful mix of personalities aboard with a couple from Seattle, for whom this was the second Seascapes expedition, and their brother-in-law and his son, and Simon, our trusty skipper who always had a curious sailing fact or puzzle to amuse the group. The next morning, we had a guided tour of the old part of Datca, a strangely reconstructed maze of winding cobblestone streets and timbered houses, the style of which was mandated by the Turkish government in order to preserve the heritage of the original town. The cost of our trip was the requirement that we sit through a carpet demonstration put on at the shop of our tour guide, where we were dazzled by whirling carpets spun out onto display by barefoot men touting the number of thousands of knots per inch and the quality of the all natural dyes used to create these kaleidoscopic and colorful designs – all while sipping Turkish cay (tea) out of the traditional hourglass shaped glass tea cups. Somehow, we all returned to the port carpet-free, and in time to prepare for our departure.

The next spot was one of our favorites from the trip – a small cove called Dircek, where there was one other boat and only a single taverna. While the day started out very calm and hot, the breeze picked up in the afternoon and we were finally able to sail. We attributed our good luck to the morning’s consumption of the last banana left in the galley, having heard that bananas brought bad sailing luck. The magic of the quiet movement of the boat through the water was further heightened by the appearance of a pod of dolphins off the bow, zipping along so closely that we could actually hear their whistles underwater. The crew was in great spirits snapping away photographs and wondering at our crisp white sails finally hoisted and full of wind. The cove that we tucked into was barely visible from the water as its entrance was quite narrow but, upon entrance, we were greeted by lovely steep green hills dotted with trotting goats enclosing a perfectly tranquil bay with crystal clear inviting waters. Of course, we had to test out both the waters and our goat-footedness by hiking up the ridge followed by a pre-dinner plunge. The taverna was a simple, family-run restaurant, but served fresh tzaziki, mucver (zucchini fritters), more of our new favorite chili paste, and grilled Cipura (sea bream), a local fish we had seen on our swim. It was a deliciously quiet evening perfect for a good night’s sleep.

The next morning started off cooler than most such that we especially enjoyed the warmth of our morning coffee on deck before getting underway. Once out of the safety of the cove, we discovered a light breeze which carried us most of the way to Bozburun, our next port of call, where Chad was eagerly awaiting a much-touted Turkish shave and had saved up a bit of stubble in preparation. Bozburun was a small port town known for the construction of gulets, the dayboats we had seen in Bodrum. On our walk through town, we saw several frames of boats-to-be atop wooden cradles surrounded by fields with cows and goats. The gleaming varnished hulls of the completed boats, ready to head out to the tourist ports, lined the waterfront. This was all viewed along the path to the aforementioned Turkish shave which was, indeed, quite an experience, or at least for me to watch, and the final product was definitely worth more than 5 YTL (Turkish Lira).
In the evening, following another tasty taverna dinner, the Vassilis crew retired to the boat for a vicious game of Scrabble which began with the two of us playing each other and progressed to include the other crew members taking one side or the other to the end result of a winning 83 point word using all seven letters (much to Chad’s chagrin).

The sailing continued to be good on the following day and, as we didn’t have a lot of distance to cover, we were able to follow the wind a bit and also to stop along the way to see the ruins of a Roman villa of sorts that Simon remembered from voyages past. We quickly discovered that the goats had taken up residence in one of the still-standing smaller structures and got a bit of a scare upon peering in. Walking up the hillside, we discovered wild thyme and sage that sweetened the breeze a bit against the scent of the goats. It was hard to tell what we were looking at, but it was another amazing example of ruins likely over 1000 years old completely unlabeled much like those we saw in Kos. Eric and Paul cooked up a fantastic hot lunch of sausages and Babs made potato salad, all of which we feasted upon in the sun while anchored in the cove and which exacerbated the slow pace of our afternoon. Eventually, we made our way to Sailor’s Paradise, a cove similar to Dircek in its hidden position and tranquility. The taverna there had beautiful gardens out back filled with flowers and vegetables, many of which we enjoyed with our dinner that night. Spurred by last night’s festive game playing, in the evening we played Pictionary down in the galley accompanied by a bit of the local coffee-anise flavored after dinner drink.

Sadly, we came to our last day of sailing, as we had to return to Datca in order to get various people on ferries and flights home. But, we had our best sailing yet, reaching a record 5.18 knots, which I proudly announced while at the helm. We took another side trip, as we were in no hurry to return to Datca, to see an old church or monastery perched on hillside and guarded by a large donkey. There was a beautiful mosaic floor made of smooth black and white beach stones arranged in star patterns and pictures of animals and a tree in front of the doorway to the small building that was covered in pieces of paper and ribbon tied to its branches something like prayer flags. We guessed that maybe it was originally Islamic, given the animal designs in the mosaic but, again, there were no official clues to its history. Inspired by yesterday’s lunch a nd, shockingly missing pasta, I made a sort of Mediterranean pasta salad which we ate on the deck with glasses of wine in disbelief at how beautiful our surroundings were and how lucky we were to be there. Datca was, once again, very hot and, after wandering around a bit in the evening, we sought refuge at a tea garden along the water where Chad sampled ayran (a local yogurt drink) and I had a quite strong Turkish coffee. For our final dinner, the Vassilis crew decided to head off on our own to a restaurant in town that a friendly English-speaking shopkeeper had recommended to us. We had fantastic moussaka, corba (garlic soup), and farmer’s salad, among other things, for a grand total of 50 YTL for seven people, leaving us plenty to buy a box of deliciously sticky baklava to pass around from the bakery down the street. It was a great final night.

The last few days of our trip were in Istanbul, having taken a ferry back to Bodrum and then a short flight from there. Istanbul was a much larger city than we’d anticipated with nearly 15 million people in the city sprawling across the Bosporus from the European to the Asian continent. We stayed in the Sultanahmet neighborhood, the heart of the old city, which was still surrounded by amazingly intact tall stone walls. Our first adventure was trying to get dinner down at the fish market along the waterfront, which we had noticed on our way in from the airport. Innocently thinking that we could stroll along looking at the various seafood and then stop at a restaurant of our choosing, we were instead immediately assaulted by, “Hey lady, want to see my fish,” and “Where are you from? You come eat at my restaurant – best one in town. I give you my word,” followed by “where are you going, my friend. Just one minute – come and have a look inside. I give you free desert.” Finally worn down by the hecklers, we escaped inside the last restaurant in the row and managed to have a wonderful dinner of seafood antipasti, fearing the cost and the cleanliness of the whole fish that may have come from the Bosporus, whose waters were clogged with innumerable tanker ships. Indeed, the waiter did bring out bananas and strawberries drizzled with honey and chopped nuts – the promised freedesert.

While in Istanbul, we braved the Kapali Carsi, the largest covered bazaar in the world with over 4000 shops, where you can buy everything from carpets to genie lamps, but where you must be prepared to bargain. We were relieved to find that the heckling here was nothing compared to last night’s dinner experience and, once we got into the swing of bargaining, we managed to purchase a few things for just about half the asking price by using the new-found power of just saying “no” and walking away. The spice market, scattered outdoors, contained stall after stall of all varieties of the taffy-like Turkish delight as well as perfectly sculpted mounds of spices of every color and texture. And, a third market was known for its live pets for sale, which included leeches squirming around in large glass jars. Visible from the roof-deck of our hotel and only a short walk away, was the famous Blue Mosque, which was, at the time of its construction in 1609, controversial because its six minarets were said to rival those at Mecca. I made use of my newly purchased scarf to cover my head upon entrance and my too-short skirt was deftly covered by a large blue sheet provided by the man guarding the door. Walking around barefoot and cloaked, I got a small taste of what it would be like to be a young Islamic woman living in Turkey. Inside the mosque, the tilework lining the domes was amazing and was brightened by light coming through colorful stain glass windows and filtering onto the carpeted floors. A group of men were in prayer, repeatedly standing up and kneeling down, facing to the east, reminding us that this is still a place of worship. This was in contrast to the Aya Sofya, which was originally built in 360 AD as a Christian church in the time of Constantine, was then converted into a mosque by the Ottomans and, most recently, into a public museum. The mosaics there were the most striking we saw with the careful coloration and patterning of the tiny tiles lending very expressive looks to the people portrayed. The Arabic writing on the walls contrasted with the figures of Virgin and Child above the altar. We also visited the Suleymaniye mosque in the large complex overlooking the old city on one of the original seven hills of Constantinople, modeled after those of Rome, no doubt, and built by renown Ottoman architect Mimar Sinan in 1550. On a recommendation from friends, we went to the Yerebatan Sarayi, an underground cistern built by Emperor Justinian to collect water from the Belgrade Forest brought in by aqueducts. It had been very well restored following the removal of 50,000 tons of mud to expose the many columns filling its dimly-lit caverns. There were even fish in the shallow pool beneath our feet and water eerily dripping from above.

During our wanderings around town, we had passed a movie theater and noticed that Orumcek Adam 3, or Spiderman 3, was playing, and decided to take advantage. It may seem a bit strange to see a movie while in Istanbul for only three days, but, living in Sardegna, we are a bit short on opportunities or, at least, those in a language we can understand. The wonderful thing about movies in Turkey is that they are in English with Turkish subtitles and, even better, they have an intermission during the movie for an often badly needed shot of caffeine. It also provided a welcome rest from all of the walking we had done around the city.

Curious to see what the newer part of Istanbul was like, the next day we ventured across the Golden Horn to see Beyoglu. It was much like any large European city in feel and was a bit of a disappointment after being among the twisting narrow streets of the Sultanahmet. While walking down the main street, we noticed large phalanxes of police in riot gear surrounding a public square, but with no real crowd in site. Later, we heard that there had been a protest, much like those the day before in Izmir, of people against the current government’s religious leanings and in favor of a more secular state. Turkey has such an interesting history from Constantine to the Ottomans to Ataturk and now the present situation of trying to gain entrance into the European Union.

That night, we reconvened with the Vassilis crew minus Simon, as they had all stayed in the Istanbul as well. We had a wonderful dinner at the Mosaik Café where we sampled manti, the East Anatolian version of meat-filled ravioli in a spicy pepper-yogurt sauce, and delicious lamb cooked in clay pot. After dinner, we enjoyed a bottle of wine and more baklava on the roofdeck of our hotel, before finally saying goodbye. We were very lucky to be with such a good group of people for our trip.

Our final site on our final day was the Topkapi Palace, home to Sultans from the 14th century through the mid-19th. There were displays of lavish carpets, ceramics from the far east, weaponry from as far back as the 5th century, and amazing jewels from throughout the empire, including the famous 86 carat Spoonmaker’s diamond and the Topkapi dagger with egg-sized emeralds set into its handle. Perhaps the most interesting were the relics of St. John the Baptist – his arm encased in gold armor and his skull in a gold and jewel-encrusted crystal box. We wondered how this Christian relic ended up in the palace of an Islamic ruler. We visited the harem as well, where we imagined the young girls living under the auspices of the Queen Mother, all being groomed to please the Sultan. The systems of hierarchy and subjugation at the palace were amazing with every group living on the grounds belonging to a ranked society. We decided that perhaps the safest, happiest existence within the grounds might be that of a bird in the beautiful courtyard gardens who would actually be free to come and go as he pleased, unlike most of the subjects employed there. After our tour, we found lunch outside the palace gates at a gozleme café, where we watched a scarved woman roll out large flatbread pancakes and cook them on a flat iron skillet next to our table. There was just enough time for Chad to have one last Turkish shave before we had to head off to the airport, thus concluding our Turkish adventure. It is definitely a place that we would like to return to, our curiosity peaked by the little that we were able to see. It is a rare place in that it is culturally quite different but, at the same time, fairly accessible so that one does not feel completely overwhelmed.

Now, we are back in Sardegna, where summer is upon us with temperatures increasing, both water and air, and, with that, increasing numbers of tourists as well. We very much look forward to staying relatively put for a couple of months and taking in things here while reflecting upon our many spring adventures.

1 Maggio 2007

2007-05-02T00:14:00.000-07:00

We have finally begun the first days of summer (although last night we had quite a hard downpour again and everything is now hanging in the sun to dry). The winds have calmed, the sun has returned after a long stretch of gray rainy days, and everything is suddenly shockingly green. The air smells different with the heat of the sun releasing new scents and new flowers blooming every day. This has also brought the return of the tourists, including the looming cruise ship that is momentarily parked outside our window. It is so close that I can even hear the announcements over the loudspeaker. The weather is particularly wonderful because my parents were just here and were able to enjoy long mornings on the porch watching the boats go by and listening to the birds singing.

I have to start back in March - the beginning of the crazy period of travel and guests. It all began when we boarded the overnight ferry to the mainland in order to meet our friends from San Diego in Tuscany for the weekend. In the wee morning light, we disembarked in the industrial port of Livorno and headed to the lovely walled city of Lucca, protected by its ramparts from the invading Pisans and Medicis. We had a delightful walk in the warming sun with hardly another soul on the streets, as the ferry gets in at 6am, and a cappuccino and a local specialty rice pastry of some kind in the main piazza. Just as we were heading out, we got a call from Scott to say that Anne had taken a fall in Rome and broken her ankle and that they would not, for obvious reasons, be meeting us as planned at the train station in Pisa. With plans up in the air for the moment, we took a little detour to another walled town, San Gimignano, where we ducked into a small trattoria for lunch just as the ran began to fall and managed to eat and drink until the sun returned and we got a call from Scott saying the they were on a train on their way to Florence.

Once in the Florence, we had a bit of an adventure getting around, as Anne was hobbling around on crutches. But, we managed to see the Uffizi with the help of a wheelchair and to have a picnic at the Piazza Michelangelo, overlooking the city, complete with Antic Noë sandwiches (a 400 year old shop we discovered on our honeymoon with the best sandwiches anywhere) before leaving for a gorgeous drive through the Tuscan countryside. We stopped in Greve in Chianti at the Verazzano winery (namesake of the New York bridge) where we tasted wonderful wines as well as the best balsamic vinegar I’ve ever had. The views from the winery's castle were unreal – terra cotta roofed houses dotting the landscape perched atop bright green hills rolling into the distance and lined with single-file rows of tall cypresses. Our first night in Tuscany, we stayed at a wonderful agriturismo in Greve that was tucked on a hillside just outside of town. The old stone building had lovely terraces and a cozy breakfast room where the owners left us a caraf of their homemade wine to taste before our dinner out in town. Staying there was a bit complicated, however, by the fact that we were the first guests of the season and, therefore, the first to discover (while waiting barefoot on the chilly tile floors for the water to warm up) that the boiler that heated the hot water was not yet lit. The heat in the rooms was also barely detectable, but the setting and the hospitality of the owners made up for it. After a few days of travel, we headed back to the tranquility of Sardegna to rest tired (and some broken) limbs. Unfortunately, we were in the midst of a stretch of bad weather, so we spent the first few days back reading, visiting and eating well until the Easter weekend brought us longed-for glorious sunshine. Our friends in La Maddalena put on a lovely Easter meal in their yard with meats on the grill and an array of cakes and gelatos for desert and we whiled away the afternoon, helped along by a bit of wine. Monday, we set off for more of an adventure than we’d planned in order to see the Festa di Torrone (torrone is a local toffee-like candy made with honey and nuts) in the town of Tonara near where I’d seen the Mamuathones at the start of Carnevale season. It was the Italian holiday of Pasquetta (the day after Easter) when everyone packs picnics and camps out in a green spot in the country for the afternoon with their friends and family. It was a wonderful sight to see everyone spread out in the sun. The festival itself was surprisingly crowded, especially after passing through many sleepy towns along the way. We sampled many varieties of torrone from limoncello to mirto to cioccolata and all types of nuts. The women making the torrone were impressively stirring giant cauldrons of sticky candy, rapidly beating the sides with large wooden spoons as they stirred it around and around. Another neat find of the day was a snow-capped peak in the town of Fonni, the highest village in Sardegna. This is the first snow we’ve seen here.

I have yet to mention that, amongst all of our visitors, I started and now have finished a cooking class at an agriturismo just up the road from here. I saw the advertisement for it at the local Pescheria (fish shop) and, after fearing that it would be cancelled for lack of enough people, I managed to round up a few other Americans with the promise that I would play translator for them during the lessons. The remainder of the students are middle-aged Italian women with one young woman about my age. Because of the linguistic challenges, the class started out fairly segregated, but, by the end, there was much joking around, mostly at the expense of the young Americans and their lack of culinary skills. Most importantly, though, I have learned how to make Spaghetti allo Scoglio (seafood pasta). The secret is a sauce derived from smashed shrimp heads which are flambéed with Brandy. I tested out my new skills for my parents and all were pleased with the results. We also learned to make a dazzling array of antipasti, presented as a beautiful buffet and then we finished the course with several pasticceria classes where we made nearly a dozen different torts and tarts - each class. The course culminated with a final festa complete with many kisses goodbye, homemade champagne to celebrate, and promises for further meetings.

That brings us up to the changing of the guests. Chad dropped Scott and Anne off at the airport in the morning and I picked up my parents just before midnight the same night. Fortunately for me, they were exhausted the first day, and I could catch up on life’s errands (and the online class that I decided to start at the same time all of our guests started arriving) before resuming my role as tour guide and innkeeper. We had many adventures while they were visiting including kayaking to Punta Sardegna to see the lovely houses of my dad’s new favorite architect, Alberto Ponis, wandering along the castle walls of Castelsardo (and meeting a darling woman weaving baskets in a cobblestone alley), sailing to Isola Spargi’s white sand beaches with Lorenzo, touring the nuraghe of Arzachena, dining at the Italian Officer’s Club on La Maddalena and driving the island loop, exploring the Friday morning market in Palau to taste amaretti (almond cookies) and the many types of local Pecorino cheeses and sausages, and enjoying lazy afternoons on the beach in the sun.

Then, all too soon, we were off to Rome where we walked until we dropped. The first afternoon, I had imagined that we would get to our hotel and take it easy in the afternoon and then head out in the evening for a drink and dinner, but my parents were eager to get out and see Rome upon our arrival. So, we pulled out the map and planned an afternoon walk that took us first to the Spanish Steps, which were filled with throngs of people nestled amongst pink azaleas left over, we later learned, from the annual spring fashion show. We stopped for a rest at a café just off the piazza and enjoyed some birra and antipasti while soaking in the mood of the crowds and then headed to the Pantheon. Unfortunately, we arrived just after it had closed and would have to return another day. By then, it was time for dinner, for which I had made a reservation at Trattoria der Pallaro near the Campo Fiori. It was a fantastic place bustling with busy waiters all under the orders of Paola Fasi, the turbaned proprietress whom I had read about in my guidebook. It was a good thing we’d made a reservation, as we arrived with a crowd of other hungry people, all of whom were turned away by an unsympathetic Paola. Immediately after we were seated, wonderful antipasti appeared including savory lentils and potato croquettes followed by homemade pasta, thinly sliced beef served with fennel, hearty potato chips and delightful homemade bread. The finale was tangerine juice served in thimble-sized glasses with a slice of custard tart, which, after asking for forks, we were instructed to eat with our hands. When I asked if we could order café, I was told that the menu was finished and that if we wanted anything more, we’d have to start over again from the beginning of the menu. As I had read, “You’ll eat what they serve you.” To digest our tasty dinner, we walked home via the Trevi Fountain, which was magically lit up in the moist evening air and surrounded by people throwing wished-upon coins into its waters. Mom and dad did this nearly 40 years ago and made new wishes on this trip. After a lot of walking for having arrived at nearly 4pm, we returned to the hotel for a night of sound sleep.

The next morning, Chad and I started off with a visit to the Cappucin Crypts where we saw the bones of some 4,000 monks (including a few whole skeletons complete with monks garb and skin) arranged in elaborate displays in a church basement. It was elegantly done, if that can be said of arrangements of bones, and certainly unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. Unfortunately, you are not allowed to take pictures, so we bought a few postcards. We met up with my parents back at the hotel and struck out for the Colosseum, taking in a bit of the parade celebrating Rome’s birthday along the way. My favorite were the marching Centurions. Processing with the teeming hordes around the circular levels of the Colosseum, we imagined some 50,000 Romans cheering on the Gladiators in their bloody battles.

From there, Chad and I picked up picnic provisions and met my parents in a shady spot atop Pallatine Hill where we took in views of the house of Romulus, ruins of the palaces of Emperors past, and the forum below. After lunch, we strolled through the forum, marveling at the Vestile Virgins, the Temple of Caesar, where he was cremated and where Marc Antony uttered the famous line, “Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears . . .,” the curia (senate house) where Caesar was killed, and the Temple of Saturn, constructed circa 500 B.C. the oldest structure in the forum. In the late afternoon warm sun, fueled by the prospect of gelato, we climbed the steps out of the forum up to Michaelangelo’s Piazza Campidoglio, with a view of the Monument Vittorio Emmanuele, marking the unification of Italy under the Sardegnan! King Victorio Emmanuele, from the top of the descending steps. After the anticipated gelato, we dragged back to the hotel to say goodbye to Chad, who had to take the train to Naples for a course for work, and agreed to ripose until dinner. The concierge at our hotel recommended a small place nearby called Trattoria Innoscenzi, off Piazza Barberini, and instructed us to ask for Beppe and tell him that Luigi sent us. We did and were rewarded with a wonderful meal in the garden patio hidden off the street - seafood antipasti and champagne shrimp, followed by a desert of limoncello torta and panna cotta accompanied by Sambuca and limoncello (and strangely, Jagermeister, which the waitress called amaro). At nearly 11pm, having arrived at 8pm, we finally finished up.

On our final day in Rome, we explored a few churches near the Pantheon, admiring the gold of Chiesa Gesu and the Cavaggio paintings in the Chiesa San Luigi dei Francesi before heading up the river to see a modern architectural museum constructed of a glass box built around a triumphal arch. We walked back along the Fiume Tevere to Piazza Navona for lunch, where we listened to a young boy playing accordion and crooning “O sole mio,” and then on to the Pantheon for a short visit before a long trek across the city to get back to our hotel so that I could race off to the train station to join Chad in Naples. There was just enough time to squeeze in a tear-filled goodbye before leaving and one last gelato with dad at the Stazione.

Next stop, Naples. The train ride out of Rome provided beautiful views of the Lazian countryside as well as a well-preserved aqueduct. The first night in Naples, after a hair-raising drive through the city with Chad at the wheel, we met a crew of people at an agriturismo called Abraxas which was perched over the Lago Aveno, the fabled entrance to Dante’s Hades, which we saw in the misty dusk. The food was never-ending and delicious and sometime around midnight the group decided to forgo desert and home home – basta!

Tuesday, a friend of ours volunteered to play tour guide and take me and another woman to Sorrento, down the coast. The drive was beautiful with steep cliffs dropping off into glittering waters below and the town was full of narrow, winding streets with shops selling loads of lemon products from pottery to soaps to lemon chocolates and, of course, limoncello. We saw the giant local lemons at several of the produce stands, which were more the size of melons than lemons, before stopping at a café for some famous Neapolitan Pizza Margherita – simple, but tasty. This was followed by refreshing graniti limoni (lemon ices) as we made our way back towards the car. After an afternoon’s rest, Chad and I enjoyed a beverage on the roof of our hotel overlooking the bay and the diffuse waning light and colors over the jumble of crowded apartment buildings and rooftop antennae. One of the drawbacks of such a thriving city is the problem of pollution and trash, which is ubiquitous. It makes me appreciate Sardegna, though its landscape is often not the cleanest either. Afterwards, we found a nice place around the corner for dinner where they served us complimentary limoncello for desert (they brought the whole bottle!).

The next morning, there was an organized trip to Vesuvius for everyone at the course. As it was an Italian holiday, fighting the traffic and crowds to get to the start of the trail was a bit of a challenge. On the mountain, the scenery was lunar-like and some of the craters even had steaming vents. The feel of it was enhanced by the low clouds rolling across the crater ruins, though the locals apologized for the cloudy weather obscuring the otherwise spectacular view of the Bay of Naples. To complete our volcanic tour, we spent the afternoon in Herculaneum where we wandered the 2,000 year old streets of the amazingly well-preserved town. Even the paintings on the walls were visible in some houses and the mosaic floors were in near-perfect condition. Walking around the old port area, it was eery to think of all the people who had tried to escape to the coast here, only to be trapped by the hot, falling ash. The city was apparently buried in ash to an average of 16 meters! While wandering, we heard the sounds of thunder and decided to call it a day and head back for some relaxing at the spa at our hotel. Apparently, the area around Pozzuoli and Lucrino, where we were staying, was once known for its thermal pools and people came to this area to benefit from their healthful effects. Now, we enjoyed the less natural, but not less luxurious, facilities at our hotel. On our last evening in Naples, we had dinner with friends who live there and enjoyed their view out over the water while enjoying good company.

I had to fly out the next day, but had the morning to explore a bit more before leaving. Another woman at the conference and I took the train into Pozzuoli to see the Roman sites there including the Tempio Serapis, a 1st century A.D. marketplace, the Terme di Nettuno, and Ampiteatrum Flavium, where we were able to go into the area underground where they kept the exotic beasts brought in on ships from Africa for the specatcoli held in this theater – the 3rd largest of its kind in Italy. While wandering through the underground caverns we, once again, heard the rumbling of thunder overhead and had to race through increasingly heavy rain to the train station. This was all made more challenging by the fact that Meghan is 4 months pregnant! We made it safely to the train and back to a little restaurant near our hotel for more Neopolitan pizza before I had to take off for the airport in order to attend my final cooking class.

That mostly brings us up to the present – over a month of adventures with many details sadly left out as I struggled to remember all the wonderful things we’ve experienced and to get it all down before leaving for Turkey in a couple of days for our island sailing adventure. This is such an amazing time for us and we have loved being able to both to travel and to share the place where we now live with our first guests. The hardest part is to try to capture it all.

20 Marzo 2007

2007-03-21T06:34:00.001-07:00

Today is another fiercely windy day here. We even had hail earlier this morning. We have a new salt crust on the windows from the Northwest Maestrale whipping up the seas and sending them in the direction of our house. This is all a bit of a shock to the system as this weekend truly felt like summer with temperatures reaching nearly 20°C (70 F) and unusually tranquil seas. Unfortunately, we spent much of this weekend cleaning up after a minor household disaster in the wee hours of the night on Friday. We awoke to the sound of dripping only to discover that it was coming from the ceiling between our bedroom and the hallway. Because we had a friend staying for the night, I quietly snuck upstairs to see if the faucet had been left on or the toilet had overflowed and was met with at least an inch of standing water covering the floor. Somehow, our friend managed to sleep through all of this until I rudely awakened her with a light to further inspect the damage. I‘m not sure what the logic behind it was, but someone decided to put the hot water heater upstairs so that should it spring a leak, as it definitely had, it would drip down through the walls into the lower floor of the house. Fortunately, it is positioned above the bathroom and hallway, both of which have tile floors. A frantic call to the guardiano (caretaker) of our condominium complex, Pietro, got him up in the middle of the night to turn off the water to the heater. As I had already given him a bottle of our first batch of homemade Mirto, I would have to think of another treat to give him to say thank you. The recipe for the Mirto came from his mother and he very kindly wrote it down for me when he saw my friend, Ilenia, and me picking the myrtle berries one afternoon in front of our house. After Pietro shut off the water, we spent the next hour or two sopping up water with old towels and running with them to the window to squeeze them out over the yard below. The next day, I felt the effects of the repeated wringing of towels when I attempted to knead dough to make Irish soda bread for St. Patrick’s Day.

This was the other complicating factor: on Friday we had decided to have a St. Patrick’s Day party at our house Saturday night. I bought a piece of beef brisket (which I learned is called "costate di manzo") at the Macelleria and corned my first beef over the next day or so. Although I had read that you are supposed to corn beef for at least 5-7 days, we decided to experiment in order to have it ready by St. Patrick’s Day. After the hot water incident, we were concerned that we wouldn’t have water for our party the next night. We called our landlord first thing in the morning to let him know what had happened to our scalda bagno (hot water heater). We hoped that maybe someone would be out to look at it in the next few days, thinking that Monday would be most likely, as tomorrow would be Sunday, the day of riposo. Much to our surprise, in the middle of making breakfast, a car showed up with a man from the appliance store down the street. After taking a look at the model of our heater, he said he would be back in 20 minutes with a new one. Sure enough, by 10am we had a new, fully installed, functional hot water heater. So much for the Italian slow pace of work. We spent much of the day afterwards mopping and hanging out the soaked towels to dry. We were lucky to have a dry, sunny day for this. We were able to take a brief afternoon break to enjoy the summery weather and to partake of a cocktail down on the rocks – a new favorite concoction of bitters and white wine garnished with an orange slice. And, at 7:15pm, a crew of nearly 15 people showed up all at once ready for a St. Patrick’s Day feast. Much corned beef, cabbage, potatoes, soda bread, Irish stew and bread pudding later (and Guinness and Irish coffee too), we collapsed into a deep sleep for the night.

We had anticipated this weekend being a nice relaxing weekend at home after our bike trip down the coast last weekend. A colleague of Chad’s from San Diego, who is a biker, was in town and was eager to do a little touring around Sardegna. So, Saturday morning we unearthed our neglected gear packed up the bikes to drive to Alghero, a coastal town about 2 hours south of here that is known for its Catalan influence, local red coral jewelry, and wonderful seafood. We had heard great things about the coastal road between Alghero and Bosa, a town about 40 km south: a winding road with no houses, little traffic, and dramatic views of the coast and Capo Caccia, the limestone headland bearing the famous Grotta di Nettuno cave at the north end of Alghero. We had also seen the wind predictions for the weekend and had chosen to ignore them and go anyway given our friend’s short stay in Sardegna. The first challenge of the day was in finding that the one place listed for lunch along the route in our guide book, was closed. So, we would have to subsist on our breakfast for the next 30 km or so. The views were indeed beautiful and during the first part of the day the wind was stiff, but bearable. However, later in the day, there came a point when we turned around a bend, our bikes came to a dead stop, and we were forced to walk until we were in the lee of it. By Chad’s odometer, we still had about 15 km left until we reached Bosa. The North winds were getting funneled through each valley along the way so that ,with every downhill, came a disappointing deceleration. The upside to this was that we had a tail wind for most of the ascents. In any case, it was a tough ride which elicited some foul words from me and which were, fortunately, lost amongst the howls of the wind. Finally, in late afternoon, we arrived in Bosa, exhausted and famished. I went into a bar to use the restroom and returned having bought pastries for the crew, which we rapidly devoured and then bought another round. Following a hot shower, a change into non-spandex clothes, and a beer and more snacks procured by Chad from a nearby shop, we sank into the little couch in our room to vegetate in front of Italian TV for a moment before rallying the energy to get out and see Bosa on our one night there. Bosa is a beautiful little city with medieval winding streets below an imposing castle atop the hill and set along the Fiume Temo, the only navigable river in Sardegna, at one time the site of a thriving Roman settlement. Now, the river holds many colorful fishing boats and is lined with old tanneries from the pre-WWII era. Our find of the evening was a small wine shop on a cobblestone street. We had read about Bosa’s sweet Malvasia wine and wanted to try it. The proprietor of the shop was incredibly friendly and had a particular fondness for Americans. He invited us back in the morning to have a tasting before heading off on our bikes. Perhaps the evening would have been better for drinking wine, but we didn’t question his offer and promised to return in the morning.

One of the real pleasures of bike touring is the enhanced enjoyment of simple things like good food, a hot shower, and a bed to sleep in. While I think that our dinner that night at the hotel’s restaurant would have been delicious anytime, it was particularly amazing following our day’s adventure and lack of lunch. We had homemade pasta with porcini mushroom sauce and bottarga, dried mullet roe, which is a common Sardegnan addition to dishes, and Chad had the best steak we’ve had in Sardegna. It was tender and juicy in the center unlike the shoe-leather imposters we have become accustomed to here. This was all followed by seadas, the traditional Sardegnan desert of pastry filled with cheese which is then fried and topped with wild honey. We had intentions of a post dinner walk, but, instead, happily retired early to our rooms, saying prayers against the winds before going to bed.

The next morning seemed less windy, but was quite cool at the start. We headed to the wine shop in town, as promised, only to find the doors locked. But, when we turned the corner, Mario, the proprietor, was standing outside having a café with friends. Back at his shop, after pouring us a bit of the sweet Malvasia wine to warm us for the ride, he insisted on giving us a bottle to take home and would not take any money for it. While not terribly excited about lugging a bottle of wine on my bike, there was no way to refuse. The ride back was beautiful and followed an interior road up a very long climb leading out of Bosa. Fortunately, we got this over with in the early part of the day and then had only one other short climb followed by a very long descent. While yesterday we appreciated the uphills for the tailwind, today we appreciated them for their warming effects as the temperature had become quite chilly. Along the way, we saw one of the famed griffon-vultures unique to this area with a nearly 2-meter wing span which it was using to soar over the hills. We had a refueling stop at a cozy bar in Villanova Monteleone which served hot paninis and cookies and found it hard to motivate to go back outside, anticipating a chilling 12 km descent into Alghero. Pushing on for the final stretch, we pulled into Alghero quite happy to see the little blue Jetta awaiting us in the parking lot by the port. One small discovery we have made while traveling overseas is that there are always clean, free restrooms to be found at McDonalds. We spotted one just up the street from our car, which provided the perfect spot for changing out of bike gear, having a rare fountain Coke, and washing up before exploring town. We walked around a bit, following the Bastione, the city’s complex of seawalls and watchtowers constructed to defend the city, and ducking into churches here and there, mostly to retreat from the chilly wind. Once finally back home, we enjoyed loads of take-out pizza and a movie from the comfort of our couch with the heater nearby. Another Sardegnan adventure completed.

Now, we anticipate the end of March: the month of perpetual climatic indecision, and the arrival of many guests in April. This month, I am also hoping to begin a cooking class at a local Agriturismo (a rural restaurant that serves homemade products such as wild boar sausage and sheep’s milk Pecorino cheese) and to begin teaching English at the Italian Officer’s School – two fine opportunities to learn more about Italian cuisine and language.

28 Febbraio 2007

2007-02-28T04:32:00.000-08:00

Today is the last day of the month of February and it is blowing its way out with fury. The sky is patchy blue with low clouds over Corsica and the sea is wind-whipped and full of white-caps. The last few days have been molto ventoso (very windy), reminding me of the spring winds in New England marking the change in seasons. In Maine, the incoming warm air meets the still-cool seas, causing great tempests. Here, the water is still warm enough to go for a swim, and the sun strong enough to get a sunburn. Brightly colored flowers have started to emerge among the lichen-covered rocks – purple wild crocus, tiny red pin cushion plants, and tall yellow Acetosella. The emergence of the sun today was unexpected, as the morning began with spotty showers, but ended with a beautiful rainbow right outside our window after I returned from my morning walk with Manny.

This weekend marked the end of Carnevale here. Though Lent technically already began last Wednesday, there was still quite a bit of revelry through the weekend including a sfilata (a parade) through the streets of Palau, in which Chad and I both participated – Chad as a soldier from Toy Story (tough costume to dig up) and me as Sebastian, the lobster, from the Little Mermaid, as the American float had a Disney theme. The parade covered no more than 8 blocks, but took over four hours to cover. Along the way, each float served wine and beer and the American float served hot dogs and hamburgers as well, making it the most popular as the sun began to set and the hunger of the masses grew. There was plenty of loud music, loads of confetti, which we are still finding in our house, and, of course, plenty of imbibing as well.

The final event of Carnevale was the Pentolaccia, which took place on Sunday under a grand tent at the port in Palau. I am still not sure of the significance of Pentolaccia, but it involves adults dressed in marvelous costumes complete with silver and gold masks, colorful capes, and elaborate headdresses who all surround a piñata. Children from town try to break the piñata with a giant stick, which was more difficult than I would have imagined. Meanwhile, they played some sort of dirge "a la Metallica" in the background, which added to the odd pagan feel of the whole affair. The evening was capped off with fuochi artificiali (fireworks) over the port, which we missed as we had retreated home in the growing winds and coming rain to a fire in our fireplace.

Under this same tent, a few weeks ago, we enjoyed a wonderful Sardegnan dinner, another of the Carnevale events. Though I had just come down with a cold and it was a grey, chilly evening, we summoned the energy to head to town for what was advertised as a salsiccia alla griglia (grilled sausage) dinner. We were among the first people there and were seated by the hostess at one of the many long tables set up for the evening around a small stage that would be for dancing later. Before long, we were joined by a very nice woman who happened to speak a bit of English. By the end of the evening, she had introduced us to all of her friends, and we had been invited to go diving over the summer by a man who works in a local dive shop, to go salsa dancing in Porto Cervo by another man from the Dominican Republic, but who lives in Palau, and to see traditional Sardegnan dancing in a small coastal village by a man who was about 5 feet tall and who winked at me from the other end of the table as we said our goodbyes. It was quite an experience filled with wonderful food and new friends and capped off by the traditional and delicious Carnevale fritelle (fried dough).

We missed Martedi Grasso in Palau, or Fat Tuesday as New Orleanians know it, because we were en route back from a ski trip to Innsbruck, Austria. To get there, we took the ferry from Sardegna to Livorno, on the mainland, and then drove from there up through Tyrol and into Austria. The mountains were beautiful and it was a treat to see snow, as our only glimpses of it lately have been atop distant Corsica from our window on very clear days. After navigating signs in German, which was a challenge, we arrived in Innsbruck late in the afternoon and spent the evening wandering through the charming pedestrian district of town past the famous Goldenes Dachl, near which we found a cozy shop full of homemade schnapps of all sorts with a proprietor who allowed us to sample a few varieties. For dinner that night, we headed to what was to become our favorite happy-hour spot, Thereisenbrau, for fondue, Bavarian pretzels and home-brewed beer.

The next day was gorgeous with bright sun shining on the towering Alps above surrounded by blue skies. We walked into downtown Innsbruck for a visit to the Hofburg Palace, once home to Emperor Maximilian I, which was full of period furniture and halls full of larger-than-life portraits of members of the royal family, many of whom possessed the unfortunate Hapsburgian nose. More impressive were the Hofkirche, which contained a dozen or so very detailed bronze statues also of royalty, all surrounding the tomb of Maximilian, and the Dom zu St. Jakob, with its guilded altar, ornate pulpit, and gleaming silver organ beneath the colorfully painted dome. Somewhere amidst our roamings, we took a break for lunch at a small Thai restaurant, which may seem odd in the land of beer and schnitzel, but it was a rare opportunity coming from Sardegna, the land of only pizza and pasta. We had dinner that night back at our hotel, the Neue Post, which we learned to pronounce “noya post,” with a friend from La Maddalena, her sister and crew.

Finally, the next day, we headed off to the slopes. We picked up the ski bus in front of our hotel and meandered up to the mountain through a few small villages and then a long windy road that led up and up until we could finally see the trails of Axamer-Lizum, our destination. I had a few butterflies in my stomach in anticipation of attempting to get down those trails - preferably on two skis. But, all went well on the first day and the zippy skiers graciously waiting and cheered on the pokier ones in the bunch. One of the highlights of the day was sitting in the sun at the Hoadlhaus atop the mountain during our lunch break. The views from the top were amazing and the sun felt magnificent. We sampled hearty skiers’ fare from streudels to knodels to various wursts and spaetzels, and good Austrian beer. The Radler, a mix of Sprite and beer, became a refreshing favorite. A handful of runs in the afternoon brought us to the end of the day when we had to catch the last bus back to the hotel. We quickly decided that, while the bus may take a bit longer than driving one’s self up the mountain, it was well worth it for the relaxing ride home, which usually included a steaming cup of gluwein (hot wine spiced with cloves and orange) and a nap. We were also happy to have dinner at our hotel included in our ski package so that we could shortly thereafter drag our tired bodies upstairs for a long sleep.

Days two and three brought more sunshine and increased confidence and speed on the slopes with only a few personal yard sales for everyone’s entertainment. Somehow, following one of these, one of my skis ended up completely vertical, pointing up out of the snow far above where I ended up. I also managed to have a small collision with a snowboarder after which, thinking it was probably my fault, I yelled a long confusing series of, “Sorry, scusa, mi dispiace,” and a garbled attempt at “Entschuldigung,” German for "excuse me". Apparently none of these worked, as his friend commenced yelling at me in French. I figured I had done better than most on the mountain, as it seemed to be the usual custom to knock someone down and continue on with your skiing or, as we discovered in the lines for the ski lift, to use your elbow and ski poles to wedge your way into position, often tipping over small children or those less than completely comfortable wearing skis on their feet.

Our last day in Innsbruck, we enjoyed one last lovely breakfast at the Neue Post, after which we felt compelled to buy some Muesli to bring home with us, and then we went for a final walk through downtown before starting the long drive back. Given a tip from the caretaker at our condiminium, Pietro, we decided to drive along Lago di Garda, which is a beautiful narrow lake surrounded by steep cliffs and small summer resort towns. When we stopped in the town of Nagos to get gas, we were invited to the Martedi Grasso celebrations in the piazza for a free lunch. Several men stirred giant pots of pasta beneath streamers criss-crossing the piazza where people were gathered for the festivities, and we joined them to await a delicious bowl of Penne alla Bolognese. Then, we headed on towards Verona, where we planned to make a short visit. In Verona, we saw the famous colosseum (the second biggest in the world) where they have operas in the summer, for which we hope to return, and also the Casa di Julietta with its wall full of lovers notes stuck up with bubble gum. Then, we were off for the long stretch back to Livorno to catch the ferry home. Once there, we happily checked into our tiny little cabin and hardly noticed how much less comfortable our bunk was than the nice fluffy bed at the Neue Post. An announcement over the ship radio very early in the morning followed by many follow-up announcements and knocks on all the doors, got us up and out of bed for our arrival back home. Sardegna, as always, was beautiful to come home to, with pink morning clouds streaked across the rugged rocky hills.

That brings us up to the present. All else is well here: Chad continues to enjoy his work but not to work too much. I am nearing the end of teaching my second semester of Biology and will then take a break from teaching during the next semester as we anticipate the arrival of many guests and also a trip to Turkey in May. And, Manny is living la dolce vita del cane - chasing birds on the beach and lazing in the sunshine in the yard.

Baci,
S, C & M

23 Gennaio

2007-01-23T06:36:00.000-08:00

We have begun the Carnevale season here, which culminates in many parades and festivals on Fat Tuesday, known here as Shrove Tuesday, marking the beginning of Lent. Last week, I went for a drive to the small town of Mamoiada, a couple hours south of here in the province of Nuoro, with a friend and her little girl, to see the Festa di Sant’Antonio. Sant’Antonio apparently stole fire from hell and brought it to earth, which means that there are a large number of bonfires lit around the town during the Festa. More interesting, though, are the characters that tour from bonfire to bonfire in a strange pre-springtime ritual. Each year, men dress up as Mamuthones, wearing costumes of shaggy black sheepskins, black wooden masks and, most impressively, about 30 kg (70 lbs) of campanacci, or cowbells. They are supposed to embody all of the things that primitive humans feared and are rounded up, lassoed and chased out of town by the Issokadores, men dressed up as gendarmes wearing red brass-buttoned jackets, tricorner hats and white wooden masks. All around the town, there are bonfires set by digging up the entire stump of a tree and setting it ablaze. They were impressive. The Mamuthones and Issokadores parade from one bonfire to the next, stopping at each one to do a rhythmic dance where the Mamuthones stamp their feet, rattling their many pounds of bells, the sounds of which can be heard throughout the town. The Issakodores, rather than lasso the Mamuthones, opted to instead lasso the women in the crowd. I was lucky enough to get lassoed by a very young Issakador, who was quite proud of his accomplishment. I took his photo while in the lasso. At the site of each fire there is a small canvas tent set up for people to gather in and women from the town come out of these tents with baskets of homemade cookies of all types – almond, lemon, and dried fruits – and pass them around the crowd. The men come with jugs of wine, which they freely pour for the onlookers. Once all the stamping and lassoing is done, the whole crowd follows the performers on to the next bonfire. Though the town is not big, because the bells are so heavy and there are many bonfires, there are two troupes of performers needed to cover all of the sites. It was a festive and uniquely Sardegnan event.

The drive to Mamoiada took us through beautiful mountains, requiring many tunnels along the road, into the Barbagia, an area known for trekking. Intrigued by the scenery, I convinced Chad to return there over the weekend in an attempt to follow a hike outlined in our Lonely Planet guide, which would apparently take us through the lush green Valle di Lanaittu along the Sa Oche River to the Grotta Sa Oche (Cave of the Voice) named for the gurgling water flowing under it, on to a site of nearly 150 nuraghe, and then to the town of Tiscali, a 2nd century BC mountainside hideout for Sardegnans following the arrival of the Romans. This all sounded intriguing and we carefully followed the directions, looking for the described forks in the road and signs pointing us in the right direction. We did find a fork at one point and a sign for the nuraghe, but it was unfortunately on the ground among a pile of rocks and we weren’t sure which way the arrow was meant to point. We pushed on, as the scenery was beautiful – steep granite cliffs towering above us on either side of the valley. The serenity was broken, however, by the frequent shotgun fire of hunters seeking the cinghiale (wild pigs) that live around here. Needless to say, we kept Manny on a tight leash. We wound up climbing a steep track up the mountainside until the path ended at an abandoned-looking house and stable. Peeking inside the gate, I saw a lone older man sitting silently in the shade and asked him the way to the nuraghe, only to find that we’d chosen the wrong fork in the road. At this point, we were pretty tired, took a break for lunch, and headed back to the car, the mysterious sites having eluded us, but the scenery making it certainly worth while.

All of this exploring has been particularly enjoyable because of the very warm winter we are having, or so we are told. Over the weekend, to take advantuage of the warm winter, we joined in a Polar Bear Plunge organized by the Navy base. We hardly felt like we’d earned the hot chocolate we consumed afterwards. Although, after a sunny, calm start to the day, the clouds rolled in and the wind picked up just before we were scheduled to plunge, so it felt a bit more legitimate. After several weeks of having time to catch up with friends and family, go adventuring around here, and enjoy many café dates with new Italian friends in order to practice my language skills, I am now getting ready to start the next term of Biology.

4 Gennaio 2007

2007-01-04T05:11:00.000-08:00

I am finally getting around to putting this together after a long hiatus in travel-logging. I believe the last episode was in October just before I started teaching Biology on the base for the University of Maryland, which would explain the lack of reporting since.

October was a beautiful, warm month here during which we went for many kayak trips near our house, finding tucked away coves that surprisingly were empty and perfect for a rest and a swim, and hiking trips both close by and within a day’s drive or so on Sardegna. One of our hiking trips was a sort of pilgrimage to several Nuraghic sites around the village of Arzachena. These are bronze-age tombs and watch towers that are built of large rocks in odd formations. Some of them are well marked and include information on when they were built (over 4000 years ago!) and the significance of the structure and some you see unmarked along the side of the road. On adventures further from home, we took a day trip to Bonafaccio, Corsica with a few friends from here, enjoying a beautiful ferry ride on the way over and clear views of the layered limestone rocky cliffs that plunge down into the sea from the walled city above. We can see these on a clear day from our porch, but seeing them up close was quite dramatic. Excited by the prospect of some French food, the focus of the day was lunch, which lasted a bit longer than we’d anticipated. It was nearly 4 hours from start to finish not because we were delighting over the much-sought-after food, but because the service was geologically slow. But, the view from the restaurant made it mostly worthwhile.

Later in the month, I started teaching a quite large and varied class of Navy personnel and dependents – 23 students ranging in age from 20-45 or so. It was quite an experience and seemed a bit like a whirlwind now that I look back at it. The students all worked very hard and everyone passed, though there were a few close calls. The lab was the most fun, as we took field trips nearly every session – one to the water treatment plant on Santo Stefano, one to Caprera for a walk with a guide from the Parco Nazionale dell' Archipelago di La Maddalena, and one to the Centro Ricerca Delfines to see the dolphin research they do here. It was a great way to connect with local organizations and for me to meet fellow nature nerds.

In November, the evenings started to cool down a bit, though the days were still warm enough for many afternoon plunges. On these cool nights, we discovered that our condo is definitely not designed for the winter – no central heating and chilly tile floors throughout. This required a prompt field trip to a woodlot to supply our fire place and the procuring of a bombola, a propane heater, from friends of ours who had a spare. On the chilly nights, we sit in front of the fireplace or bombola and drink lots of tea with our Manny-heater curled up with us (though he is a bit of a bombola hog). I forgot to mention that firewood is a precious commodity here, as there aren’t too many trees, so we were lucky enough to get a tip from a friend on where to go without going completely broke.

As my biology class required several Saturday labs, some of our weekend trips were curtailed, though the field trip portions of the labs were adventures in themselves. The big trip of November was to Spain and Portugal for Thanksgiving week. We started out by visiting friends of ours from the Navy in San Diego who are now stationed in Rota, Spain. They pointed us in the direction of good day trips including one to Gibraltar, where we took the cable car to the top of the rock (where a Barbary ape hopped on Chad’s back and pulled my sweater out of his backpack) and ate Moroccan food for lunch while watching cars drive by on the left side of the road past English-style pubs. If we had had more time there, we would have considered taking the ferry to Africa, just across the straits. We spent another day in one of the Pueblo Blancos (white villages) called Arcos de la Frontera – a picturesque town with winding streets of white stucco buildings adorned with flower pots of bright geraniums above cobblestone pavement. And, we had to go sherry tasting in Jerez (the namesake of "sherry"), touring the Tio Pepe winery and doing a sadly limited tasting afterwards. The next day, we left for Portugal, spending two days in Lisbon walking the streets and looking at the beautiful tiled facades of the old buildings, eating wonderful seafood including fried sardines and fish stew, visiting an 11th century castle atop the city, and listening to fado, the local music of passionate, melodic singing with guitar accompaniment. From there, we drove out of the city to Estremos, a small town with yet another castle – this one was our hotel. We arrived on a blustery day of howling winds and rain and took refuge inside the castle while we watched the storm. We climbed the castle tower and poked our heads outside only to be rewarded with vertical hair, causing us to retreat to the large living room to play games and drink the local Port while sitting in overstuffed, plush chairs. The meals there were fantastic – more seafood, much to my delight, and a delicious breakfast spread, both of which were in the grand dining room. In the morning, we went to the market in Estremos where we felt like brightly colored giants next to the little old women dressed in traditional black, hooded dresses. We bought some wonderful cheese for the roadtrip back and pottery for Christmas presents, though we were tempted by the hanging pigeons and rabbits that people were purchasing for supper. We thought our adventures were done, but we had quite an experience on our way back to Spain when we stopped at what looked like a dark little bar to get a bite to eat. We still aren’t quite sure how it happened, but soon we were drinking wine that one of the locals had bought us and sampling little roasted pigs (with the heads still on). A plate of cheese and bread followed as well as more roasted meats, followed by some sort of candied fruit, more wine, and then something that tasted a bit like grappa. As we were walking out the door, we were chased down by our new friends and spoon fed a sort of roasted nut mixture, one by one, despite our protests of being too full. And, once we were all in the car and ready to leave, a young boy from the bar ran out with earthenware pitchers for us that bore the name of the town. Needless to say, we got a bit behind schedule and were happy to arrive in Jerez just barely in time to catch our flight home.

On to December – the month of parties. Living in Sardegna where there isn’t too much going on in the winter, the thing to do is to have parties. It started off with the Navy’s Christmas party, which was followed by a annual 12 Bars of Christmas pub crawl through La Maddalena (limited by the fact that there are only 12 bars to crawl to). Having survived that, we decided to host our own Christmas party here, mostly as an excuse to make fish chowder and wassail and have a Yankee swap. It was an appropriately chilly night for a fire in the fireplace and lots of toasty food and grog. Then, Christmas Eve brought another party, an all day festival of eating with friends on La Maddalena, lasting from 1pm until at least 9pm that night. We started with antipasti of all sorts and mulled wine, followed by a main course of beef roast and Yorkshire pudding, and finally chocolate mouse, pecan pie, and Mirto as our digestivo. This was good preparation for the Christmas day feast that we were invited to attend at our landlord’s house.

It is hard to describe the warmth of the scene at Andrea and Piera's house. We arrived to find nearly twenty of their extended family members all gathered in the taverna of their house, a special room with its own fireplace and kitchen and a very long table for big gatherings. We were introduced to and kissed by everyone there and then thoughtfully seated next to those that spoke a bit of English (though we had brought our dictionary just in case). The table was filled with an array of antipasti delights from insalate di mare, smoked salmon, prosciutto, homemade bread shaped like flowers (this was amazing), tuna and fagioli (white bean) salad, bottarga (fish eggs), grilled zucchini and eggplant, and many more dishes that I can’t remember. This was just the beginning. We weren’t sure how much more was coming and people kept serving us more. Then came Zuppa Gallurese, a wonderful warm baked dish of layered bread, Pecorino cheese, and meat broth. This was meal number two, which was followed by a palate cleanser of fresh fennel. Then came the roast animals – first porcheddu (suckling pig roasted with myrtle branches), capretto (goat), and agnello (lamb). We had to sample all of these as well. This was all accompanied by wine made by Andrea’s son and father. Then, the deserts began – first lemon sorbetto, then warm slices of fresh pineapple with cherries, cannoli made by Piera’s mother and tiramisu made by Andrea’s son’s fiancé. The desserts were accompanied by spumante - also homemade by Andrea’s father, and followed by grappa made by Andrea. We didn't move from our seats for over four hours! We were itching to get back home to open our presents, still sitting under the tree in our window. Although rounds of café started to come out as we were leaving, we said "basta" and made our way home. We came home to delightful gifts from near and far and some representations of gifts from afar that didn’t make it in the mail in time, which we opened in front of the fire, before beginning the series of many phone calls to friends and family to wish them a Merry Christmas.

And now, it is January, and the beginning of a new year. Sadly, this will be our only full year spent in Sardegna. We celebrated Capo d'Anno by serving steaks and lobsters at the base to American sailors and their families. It was a festive event and much merriment was made by all the volunteers. I was particularly excited for the lobster and made sure to sample plenty of it, though it was the spiny kind, not my favorite Maine lobster. We left the festivities there to ostensibly catch the 11pm ferry home to celebrate midnight at home, but the ferry employees were apparently having their own festivities and had decided to take the evening off. Huddled against the wind on the side of the Biglieteria for the ferry with a bottle of champagne and plastic cups, we watched the fireworks around La Maddalena (some right in front of us in the parking lot) and toasted in 2007 before catching the ferry at the stroke of midnight. Thus far, 2007 has brought howling winds, but beautiful clouds and sunsets as well – we even caught a moonset the other morning during the full moon. We look forward to many adventures this year and hope for many visitors as well.

Making Thai Curry in Sardegna

2007-01-02T06:12:00.000-08:00

We had lived in Sardegna two months or so when we developed a fierce craving for one of our favorite meals – Thai curry. My husband and I moved here for his job with the Navy on the island of La Maddalena, which is between Sardegna and Corsica. When we first arrived, we happily ate loads of pizza and pasta, the only fare in town, until we finally got the urge for a bit more variety. A few years ago, I came across a recipe for Thai curry paste which used ingredients that could all be found at any decent grocery store, rather than exotic things like galanga and kaffir lime leaves which many recipes called for. A few tablespoons of paste added to some coconut milk served with chicken and vegetables over rice made an easy weeknight meal. The paste could be stored in the refrigerator for several weeks and the remaining ingredients were easy to keep around – canned mushrooms, bamboo shoots and coconut milk, bottled fish sauce, frozen chicken breasts, and rice.

When we found out that we were moving to Italy, we stocked up on the basics needed to make our favorite foreign dishes, including Thai curry, as we weren’t sure what we would be able to find upon arrival. So, we already had coconut milk, fish sauce, canned mushrooms and bamboo shoots, and an assortment of dry spices. In order to make our curry, we started off by heading to the local Macelleria, or butcher shop, to buy some chicken breasts. Upon entering, we were greeted by pigs, chickens and lambs, all hanging from above and all whole. The chickens even had their feathers still on. In the cases below, we spotted pairs of giant pairs of chicken breasts. These were not the wimpy American chicken breasts that we were used to. Two of those were usually perfect for two people, but two of these breasts would be too much. Of course, it would have been far too easy if we had simply needed one piece. I knew how to say, "un pezzo," but we needed to order by weight, which required converting from pounds to kilograms. A kilogram is roughly twice a pound, so it wasn’t too tricky. Following our request for un mezzo (half) kilo, the butcher took one of the pieces and then produced a giant meat cleaver with which he began slicing the breasts into very thin medallions, or scallopini. After many desperate hand gestures, we managed to get the point across that we wanted to breasts entero (whole), and he wrapped up the rest for us with a smile.

The next ingredient that we needed was rice. For this, we went to the Supermercato. Don’t be fooled by the name into thinking this means it is big store; it just means that they have a bit of everything. Inside, we found ourselves staring at many rows of different colored boxes and all of them contained rice: riso integrale, classico, originale, and arborio. I recognized arborio rice as the type used to make risotto, but had no idea which of the others would be basic, plain white rice. Integrale, we thought, might be brown rice, but we couldn’t guess what might be the difference between classico and originale. There were also no cooking directions to be found on any of the boxes, which added to the challenge. We decided to try the riso originale in the red box and hoped for the best.

While there, we also needed a few fresh ingredients for the curry paste aside from the dry spices that we already had. Garlic, or aglio, was readily available, but ginger and cilantro were nowhere to be found. We also managed to find a red pepper, pepperoni rosso, which is not the type you order on a pizza, but the vegetable. Fortunately, from previous travels in Europe, we had already been through that confusion. We had also been through the embarrassment of being scolded by the produce vendor for not using a plastic glove when selecting our fruit. It seems a little odd that the butcher uses his bare hands to handle raw meat, but that you must use gloved hands to touch produce that you are presumably going to take home and wash before consuming. Once you have selected the fruit, God help you if you show up at the register with a pepperoni in an unlabeled bag. Your bag must be labeled with a sticker from the automatic scale in the produce section. If you’re lucky, there is a store clerk assigned to the task of weighing the patrons’ produce. If not, you have to figure out the machine yourself, which requires locating the numbered code for whatever you have put into your bag, typing it into the machine, and then finding the sticker it has just printed out. We got all of that figured out and put our properly-stickered bag in our basket.

On to the next challenge: soy sauce. While we had brought a bottle of soy sauce, we didn’t have quite enough for our recipe. I remembered seeing soy sauce at the local Herboristeria, a sort of health food shop, among other things like wheat noodles, tahini paste, and lemongrass tea, but it was already closed for the day. Expecting to be out of luck, we were pleasantly surprised to find a small section of ethnic foods including a very small bottle of Suzy Wan soy sauce nestled in between a box of Uncle Ben’s wild rice, canned salsa, and a box of Paella, which touted that all the ingredients were included (how they got the seafood in there still puzzles me). The bottle was a bit dusty and, upon turning it over, the sauce appeared to be of a strangely thick consistency; apparently there is not a high turn over of soy sauce at this store. It also costs about 4 euro for 4 ounces, but we proceeded to buy it anyway, happy to have found it at all.

I have forgotten thus far to mention the other major complication to grocery shopping here – riposo. Riposo is a wonderful thing if you are in a position to repose with everyone else, including all of the shopkeepers. Between 1 pm and 4 or 5 pm (or sometimes even 6), things get very quiet. Doors are locked, lights turned off, and metal gates are rolled down over the storefronts. Everyone goes home to have a big home-made lunch with their families and then to take an afternoon nap. Some time in the evening, people start to emerge again for their passegiata, or walk through town. Good luck if you need something during riposo hours, with the exception of a drink. The bars are always open but, although they purport to have food as well drinks, this is not the case at all hours. Riposo also extends to Sundays – some stores close altogether and some have limited morning hours. So, if you want dinner for Sunday night, you’d better decide what you want on Saturday. We think that the Italian restaurateurs are in collusion to get you to eat out on Sundays. Lucky for us, we were shopping for Thai curry on a Saturday morning, so everything was open.
The last stop of the day was to the Navy Exchange store (known as "the NEX"), which we often try to avoid since we live in Palau, a town at the tip of Sardegna, and the NEX is on the island of La Maddalena, and requires a ferry to get to. It is really pretty simple to take the ferry and inexpensive on foot, but to get to the NEX we needed to take the car, which added 5 euro or so to our grocery bill. But, because the NEX is an American store, it is open during riposo, so we could shop there in the afternoon. Once there, we were finally able to find ginger, but still no cilantro. We also happily noticed a supply of fish sauce, coconut milk, bamboo shoots and mushrooms as well, among the assortment of ethnic foods. This was good to know for future re-supplying.

We returned home with all of the supplies and unloaded our precious loot. In the US, making the paste for the curry required putting all the ingredients into our small food processor and hitting the start button. However, our food processor runs on 110V electricity, and Europe runs on 220V. So, all of our appliances have to be run through a transformer. Because we only have one transformer which is usually hooked up to the array of media devices in the living room – TV, DVD player and stereo – using the little food processor requires unplugging everything from the clunky transformer box and lugging it into the kitchen. This was accomplished without too much trouble, thankfully, and the food processor revved to life, producing a fresh batch of curry paste.
Now, we were ready to cook; we just had to brave the stove. Luckily, we weren’t baking anything, so we didn’t have to convert from Fahrenheit to Celsius. We just needed the stovetop, which is gas and is run off a refillable tank kept outside our house. These tanks, called bombolas, run a lot of things around here – dryers (if you’re lucky enough to have one), heaters, stoves, etc, and their gas supply is powerful! When you light the stovetop, you had better stand back because the flames shoot straight up from the burner upon ignition. Then, it is a Zen art to properly adjust the flame level to low heat without turning off the burner completely and having to go through the hair-raising ignition process all over again. You must hold very still and move very slowly with no distractions as you ease the gas down bit by bit. Of course, Thai curry needs to be simmered at very low heat, so we went through this process several times before getting the flame just right.

In the end, the giant Italian chicken breasts, the mystery white rice, and even the Suzy Wan soy sauce all came together to make a delicious curry. It is amazing to think that this meal was one of our staples, an easy last-minute meal, back in The States. We usually had everything on hand or could pick up the ingredients at the closest grocery store on the way home from work. While it was convenient to be able to buy everything at one store without having to learn about different kinds of rice, how to order chicken breasts in kilograms, or how to select and weigh a pepper, we have come to appreciate the challenges of shopping here and the things we have learned in the process. By now, the man at the Macelleria says hello to me, the woman at the fruit stand rounds down to the nearest euro when charging me for my produce, and the Supermercato staff smiles at the lost-looking American who comes in nearly every day to shop. Sometimes convenience comes at the cost of these human connections and I have learned to value the relationships I’ve developed with local vendors here.

Living overseas is a strange balance between learning a new culture and retaining your own. When we first arrived, I looked askance at the people here who always cooked American foods and bragged about recreating "a little America" at home. But, now I have come to respect that way of life and to share in some of its comforts. I began to think about the neighborhoods of Italians, Mexicans, or Chinese in cities all over America and how neat it is to see people holding on to their native culture rather than completely assimilating. It will be interesting to see which things from home we hold on to most closely and which things we let go of more easily as we spend more time here.

All of that said, after all of our adventures, we finally sat down at our familiar dining room table, eating off our familiar plates, listening to American Jazz on our iPod (hooked up again through the transformer), and ate Thai curry while looking out the window at the La Maddalena islands jutting up out of the Mediterranean. We licked our plates clean and remarked that the curry might have tasted just a little bit better for the trouble it took to make, but that we would do it again for a taste of home in Sardegna.

10 October 2006

2006-10-10T04:31:00.000-07:00

This will, perhaps, be a brief travelogue, as it is getting later into the evening and it has been a long day here. But, I thought I’d do a recounting of a single day. There isn’t really a typical day, but several elements of routine have developed, making it feel more like we are settled here. I started off the day with a walk along the path to the beach with Manny, which I do nearly every morning before breakfast. It is always a treat to see the early morning sun peak up over the ridge and light up the town of La Maddalena around the bend. This morning’s was a pre-dawn walk, as I was heading off to catch the 8am water taxi to Santo Stefano, where the Navy ship is based. So, it was darker than normal at the outset, but soon a beautiful light bathed everything around, the cormorants were doing their usual morning fishing in the shallows and Manny was, once again, contemplating going in after them, but quickly retreated.

With a brief stop at home to put a small cappuccino in my large, American-sized coffee mug, using my revived skills as a barista and our hand-me-down cappuccino machine, I headed to the port to catch the water taxi. Dawn was still just breaking and, as the water taxi pulled away, I spotted splashing in the water, only to notice that there were dolphins alongside the boat, a rare sighting around here. I went out to Santo Stefano (dubbed "the site" because it is where the ship is kept) to meet with a few people who work in the Navy's Environmental Department in order to learn both about the native plants and animals and about the Navy’s environmental plans for closure of the base here.

After returning home, having lunch on the porch, and doing a bit of reading and work for my class, I went for a run down the beach and up the path to Punta Sardegna, followed by a brief plunge in the still-warm water. Later in the day, one of the Environmental Officers called me to meet him, his wife and some friends at Guido’s, a cafe at the port, for an end of the day drink and to watch all the people coming and going from the ferries. Several hours later, in true Italian fashion, I wandered down the railroad tracks back to our house, Manny in tow, and watched the sunset over Punta Sardegna before Chad returned home for dinner. Now, I am sitting in our living room looking out at the lights across the way, listening to music on our stereo, which is hooked up via transformer to the mostly reliable Italian electrical system, and thinking of how much our lives have changed in the last couple of months, yet how many things already feel familiar.

3 October 2006

2006-10-03T04:26:00.000-07:00

I am sitting on our porch looking out over the tip of La Maddalena towards the island of Spargi and then on towards Corsica, which you can barely see the top of through the warm afternoon haze. I just finished a lunch of leftover homemade mushroom lasagna from a Sangria party we went to this weekend and a fresh persimmon (locally called kaki) picked from a tree in our yard. We have been enjoying sunsets from the porch and had our first dinner cooked on the grill over the weekend. Our house is in a complex of condiminiums that are right on the water and are about a ten minute walk from town and the ferry landing either along a lovely waterfront path (and a patch of pines that offer a rare and welcome shady spot) or through town along the railroad tracks. On Sunday, we met the groundskeeper here, Pietro, who told us that we are the only year-round residents, so it promises to be quite quiet. However, with our proximity to shops and beaches, we will have our pick of being social or taking refuge in our cozy place against the much-tauted winter winds.

Speaking of the winds, it is an unusually calm day here (molto tranquillo) and has been for the last several days, giving us an opportunity to use our long neglected kayaks. On Saturday and Sunday, we explored the coves both west and east of our house and found hidden spots to swim and picnic. The coastline is dramatic with wind-carved granite rocks of all sort of strange forms, including a bear after which Capo d’Orso (just the other side of town from us) is named. We have found the beaches full of treasures - thousands of mini shells nestled among the large grains of rocky granitic sand, many of which we have collected to decorate our seaside abode.

It has been a week since our household shipment arrived and we have tucked everything away in the many storage nooks in our house, and have hung the art of our various friends and family on the walls. While, at first, the arrival of our shipment was a bit more daunting than exciting, now that we have the mountains of boxes and packing paper gone and things put away, it is nice to be surrounded by familiar things.

Moving has been the greatest occupier of our time lately, but we have also spent some time getting to know the town of Palau, where we now live. I continue to be amazed at how patient the Italians are with my poor language skills. I have now met several shop owners who have taken the time to help me find something and then have introduced themselves and wished me a buona giornata (good day). I am hoping that these are the places that will stay open year-round, as we have already seen many places close for the season (including a wonderful gelateria, much to our dismay). It is nice, though, to be able to walk through town and frequent the local shops and restaurants without the crowds. The tourists that are here now are mainly English and German. They are somehow able to easily recognize that I am not an Italian and are eager to strike up a conversation with someone who speaks English. We feel so utterly spoiled by this place, so please please use us as an excuse to get here.

10 Settembre 2006

2006-09-10T04:23:00.000-07:00

Salute,
We have come "home" to La Maddalena from Sicily. Coming back to a place to which you have just moved always makes it feel a little more like your home. We also had our first guests - Rob Najarian and a friend of his, which required navigating the road to the Olbia airport and back in our newly arrived Jetta. We continue to learn more about how to get around here - have befriended several of the local market vendors and tasted many more of the zillions of varieties of Pecorino, salsiccia (including some made from cinghiale - the local wild pig), and tasty olives. Chad has started an Italian course, so we are practicing our new skills around town and rapidly inventing a new Engl-Italian language. For the most part, we have been able to get by and people have been very patient.

With the arrival of the car, we have been able to explore the many beaches around La Madd, including some on Caprera, which is attached to La Madd by a verrrrrry skinny causeway just barely wide enough for a single car. We hiked down a harrowingly steep cliff wall to get to Cala Coticcio, where the water was perfectly clear and full of animali mari which we viewed through our snorkel masks. Manny has proved to be a wonderful exploring companion while Chad is at work. We have been scouting out good places to return to on the weekends for beach picnics, sunbathing, and more marine life viewing.

Things here have started to change as we have gotten into September. The tourists have mostly cleared out, though there is an influx of cruise ships bearing many English and Scottish visitors - the first English we've heard outside the Navy crew. Also, we had our first rain here and, much like in San Diego, people don't go out when it rains. Yesterday, undeterred, I went to the market anyway and found it to be pleasantly uncrowded. The Navy ship has also returned from its exercises at sea, which means the arrival of about 1,000 more Americans on the streets of La Madd.

Finally, the base just announced the timeline for closure and it looks like we will be here less than two years. We're scheduled to move into a house in Palau next week, so we will soon be open for guests.

29 Augosto 2006

2006-08-29T05:09:00.000-07:00

Salute-
It has been awhile since my last blog entry, so please excuse the jumbled nature of this update. We have now been here three weeks, which his hard to believe. However, we have already settled into the lifestyle of the afternoon riposo (the break in the day between 1-5pm when everything closes), usually facilitated by a glass of wine with lunch, we have braved the local Macelleria to get fresh meats and cheeses (and soy sauce - the only place in town I've found to buy it), learned how to successfully use our cappuccino machine, and sampled the local digestivo, Mirto, which is made from local wild myrtle berries. And, plenty of gelato, too.

We finally got out on the water for a paddle in kayaks rented from the base (since ours have yet to arrive) to a little cove with some protected rocks. The wind here can be quite fierce, so we stuck close to shore and ate our picnic before getting blown all the way back to our put-in spot. We were hoping to go to the other islands in the archipelago over the weekend, but the wind was too strong. So, we settled for a long afternoon passegiata (the customary locals' evening stroll) and a late night dinner in the piazza.

We have met wonderful people here already and have been practicing our Italian as much as possible. I just finished the introductory Italian course offered on the base and Chad starts his class next week. The owners of our temporary apartment are Italian and have been very patient with our shoddy communication skills, which involve much pantomiming and puzzled looks. They even brought us fresh figs from their tree the other day.

For our next adventure, we are going to Sicily for a few days. Chad has a Navy course there and I am taking a free military flight along with him to go exploring. A couple that we have become friends with here will be coming as well; he is American and she is from Sicily, so we are looking forward to having a local tour guide. There are so many places to explore even on the tiny island of La Maddalena, and we look forward to the arrival of our car to get around more freely. We have both passed the Italian driving test, though I am a bit scared to drive while all the speedy tourists are still here. So, perhaps it is best that our car isn't here yet.

On another note, we have found a place to live in Palau (on the main island of Sardegna). It is a beautiful spot with a water view and a small yard and porch. It is quite private while still being just a short walk from town. And, we have an extra bedroom and bath for guests. The owner is Italian, so we will have to practice a bit before our meeting with him next week.

We hope everyone is well and to hear from you soon.

Ciao,
Susanna, Carlo, e Manolito