Remember what Bilbo used to say: It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to. — J.R.R. Tolkein

Once we went out the door and ended up on the Piazza delle Erbe in Mantova (Mantua). It was raining and I had on

Ristoranti in Piazza delle Erbe

crop pants and rubber sandals and I was fighting the hydroplaning with every step and we had parked clear across the city from where we wanted to be, but never mind. Mantova is still a special place. The Gonzagas thought so in the 14th century, and made it one of Italy’s true artistic hubs. Reubens, Donatello and Pisanello owe much of their success to this shrewd family. The Roman poet Virgil supposedly hails from Mantova. And, also before the Gonzagas, the struggles between the Guelphs and the Ghibellines happened on Mantovan soil. I’m not much of a history buff, so you’ll have to look that one up. I only know that these names are very present in modern day Mantova, in museums and street signs and such.

Shakespeare was here, too, in his plays, at least. Remember that Romeo is exiled to Mantova after killing Tybalt in Romeo and Juilet? And the schoolmaster from The Taming of the Shrew is from Mantova. Finally, Verdi’s masterpiece, Rigoletto, is set in this city.

Mantova is in the region of Lombardy, in the north, and is surrounded by three man-made lakes (boringly named Superiore, di Mezzo and Inferiore) that receive their waters from the beautiful Mincio.  The mists from these lakes can create quite an atmosphere — romantic or melancholy, depending on your disposition — and there is much to see within the compact centro storico of the city.

Palazzo Ducale in the rain

On that fateful, rainy day when we parked on the wrong side of the city, we headed immediately for the Palazzo Ducale, the massive building that houses the entire history of the Gonzagas, Mantova’s ruling family from the 14^th to the 18^th centuries. Their military skills and habit of marrying into other wealthy and important families brought them fame, power and the respect of the finest artists of the day. The Palazzo, actually comprising a number of different buildings, is not beautiful in the ordinary sense, but its 30,000+ square feet of artifacts, frescoes, tapestries, staircases and unusual rooms make it worth seeing. Don’t miss the Galleria degli Specchi (Hall of Mirrors) and Appartamento dei Nani (Apartment of the Dwarves), not to be confused with the Sala dei Gigante (Room of the Giants) over at the Gonzaga’s Palazzo Te, which also houses the city’s Museo Civico with its coins and medallions and other artifacts of the family’s wealth and power.

Of course, there’s a church to see: the Sant’Andrea Basilica, the polar opposite of the usual big-city Italian cathedral. In this case, a Renaissance façade fronts a very simple 15^th-century church, the results of which are startling to the eye. The crypt has a reliquary (of course) that allegedly contains the blood of Christ, brought to Mantova by Longinus, the Roman soldier who pierced Christ’s side on the cross. If you happen to be in town on the feast day (March 18, for San’Anselmo) you can see it paraded through town. And you’ll be charmed by the Rotunda di San Lorenzo, a small church in the round that dates from the 11^th century. (And we think Jamestown is old . . .)

Rotunda di San Lorenzo

There’s a lot going on in Mantova. Since 1997, Mantova has hosted five days of readings, meetings with writers, shows and concerts during its September Festivaletteratura, the most important literary event in Europe. Writers from around the world are invited to come and speak and read and partake in the festivities. The third weekend of July features a jazz festival. And the Piazza delle Erbe is the scene of a major food market, Mondays through Saturdays from 8 am to 1 p.m. On Thursday mornings, you’ll find an expanded market that includes clothing, housewares and even more kinds of food and goodies.

Nifty restaurant walls

As an Italian movie buff, I have always wanted the opportunity to say to some young, handsome signore, “Ciao, Marcello.” So very Sofia Loren, eh? And I got my chance in Mantova. After the Palazzo Ducale (and after drying out a bit in the lavatory) we decided that it was time for lunch. So we headed back to the Piazza delle Erbe (square of the herbs) to find a suitable place. We found it. Ristorante Pizzera Osteria delle Erbe was a find. A small, narrow restaurant on the square, under the porticos, with an outside caffe (not in use on this particular day) and a welcome inside. There was a huge window that opened up to the outside, but we chose a table in the back among the artily stuccoed brick walls and copper cooking artifacts. The wines warmed us up right away and attitudes adjusted for the better. The food was perfect: inexpensive, fresh and local. Homemade papardelle with sage and butter sauce, tortellini stuffed with pumpkin, local fish, and risotto. This area has been famous for its risotto since the 1500s. The truffle risotto and funghi risotto are my absolute favorites.

Ciao, Marcello!

And Marcello? He was our waiter. A handsome, delightful young man who spoke very good English (although he said he was embarrassed by it, he shouldn’t be) and who seemed to be enjoying us as much as we were enjoying him. Throughout most of Europe, being a waiter is an honorable profession, unlike in the U.S,, where it is often a holding place for something “better.” But here, service is a time-honored profession and often results in ownership of the establishment if you stick with it long enough. Marcello, however, had a bigger dream. He wanted to be a waiter, but in America. San Francisco, to be exact. Oh, how we tried to talk him out of it! Now, San Francisco is a great city, but the whole waiter thing would have been a massive disappointment to him. Several months later, we learned that he had changed his mind and was going to stay in his native Italy. Disaster averted!

Anyway, we lingered for a long time at the restaurant, enjoying caffe and dolci, taking pictures, drying out, but then it was time to go. Marcello walked us out and I finally got to say my line. Too softly, at first, and then I blurted it out in my best carefree Italian heroine voice, Ciao, Marcello! And ciao, Mantova. A presto!

Buon viaggio!

I can’t write five words but that I change seven. — Dorothy Parker

The William Cabell House, aka The Porches

In the spirit of Virginia Woolf, who was a strong advocate for writing women to have “a room of one’s own,” I recently applied for a stay at a nearby writers’ retreat.  Last Thursday I arrived at The Porches after an hour and a half on the road from Richmond, Virginia. Located in Norwood, The Porches (one of the Cabell houses in Nelson County) was built in 1854 and offers a warm welcome, clean rooms and all the comforts of home for writers in need of peace and quiet. What is doesn’t offer is all the stresses of home. Thank you, Trudy Hale, for renovating this lovely old farmhouse and opening it up to writers back in 2006. An inspired idea.

On the trip over, the skies were threatening. We’d been experiencing late afternoon thunder bumpers and dramatic rains this week; I hoped they wouldn’t interfere with my all-too-short (four day) writers retreat.

Road signs I saw along the way:

Barn on the way

• Voted the Best Public Storage on the Planet!

• Google doesn’t have all the answers (on a church)

• Going Out of Business Sale. Today!

On Hummingbirds

Have you ever heard the sound of a dozen hummingbirds attacking a small red sugar-water  feeder? Stop thinking sweet and romantic, folks. It’s terrifying. One or two at the feeder . . . cute. But a dozen is a gang and you know how gangs behave. Territorial disputes abound. There are winners and losers. And these miniature monsters are very loud in battle. Twenty four furiously beating wings create an ominous, unearthly sound. And they fly around and at anything they think might get in their way. Like you. I’ve been buzz-bombed into the house twice now. I may have to rethink this bird business.

On Beauty

My own little writing space

I washed my hair today for the first time in three days. But we are supposed to be quiet here, so I don’t want to use the hairdryer I brought and then get yelled at. These being serious writers, I have heard no noise since arriving. Not a peep. So now my hair looks ridiculous, like Little Lulu’s, but with flippy bangs, too.

In light of this new-found naturalness, I have decided to be bold and only apply a little blush to my cheeks and, for heaven’s sake, mascara only on the upper lashes. I feel absolutely bohemian.

On Wildlife

Besides the militaristic hummingbirds, there is a lot of other wildlife here. I discovered the first of it in my shower stall at 10:30 the first night. I was wearing nothing on my feet, which always somehow makes it worse. And these things always seem more dramatic in the dark, don’t they?

Anyway, I was going to the sink for my nightly ablutions when I saw it: a bevy of beating legs attached to a 5-inch long black millipede, its rear, bow-legged pincers swinging wildly, like a caboose off its track. It was in the shower, behind the glass door, but this provided little comfort, knowing that I’d have to use very same shower in the morning. And besides, how would I ever get to sleep with this creature wriggling a mere 30 feet away?

At first I thought I could wish it away if only I did what I came to do. So I quickly washed my face and brushed my teeth. But I couldn’t go near the toilet, which was next to the shower. So, in a state of supreme bladder alertness, I realized that it was him or me. One of us would not make it through the night. I hoped it was him.

I looked around for something to kill it with. There was nothing in this very spare bathroom that would double as a poker. So I carefully reached into the shower, opening the door only a crack, found the faucet and blasted the thing with hot water. It flinched and ran around wildly, which was absolutely not my intention. The way these things move just repulses me. Besides, I realized that a lack of water was probably what brought him into the house, anyway, so this was like manna from heaven.

What was Plan B? There was no way I was going to pick the thing up and fling it into the toilet. It was HUGE, people, and extremely gross. I was beside myself. And then I saw it. My weapon of choice, on the floor behind the toilet— a green plastic bottle of Lime Away. I picked it up and, carefully opening the shower door again, blasted the thing with about a cup of toxic soup. It was not happy and soon did not have that smirk on its little bug face that it had when it was being drenched with water. It knew I was serious this time. I sprayed like a lunatic until the thing stopped moving.

When I thought it was safe, I lowered myself onto the toilet and did what I came to do, never taking my eyes off this polypodded devil. I flushed. It stopped. I opened the shower door to assess the damage and, to my horror, it moved again. (This scene was right out of one of my most terrifying theatrical experiences, Wait Until Dark. I didn’t need this right now.) I leapt back, grabbed the bottle and sprayed again, wildly, until I could spray no more. It looked still. I turned off the light and left, hoping to catch at least a few minutes of sleep.

The next morning (4 a.m. to be exact) when my bladder was at it again, I thought about going back into the bathroom to see if he was dead, had moved on, or had called in reinforcements through the drain. But there was that darkness thing again. So I waited until first light, and then slowly crept in.

My friends, do you know what Lime Away does to millipedes? It turns them red. And shrinks them in half. And makes them very, very dead. But I still had to lift the thing out of the shower and there was still nothing with which to do that. After a few minutes of feeling extremely sorry for myself, I wadded up some toilet paper, prayed that I wouldn’t feel anything, and lifted him up and into the toilet with lightning speed. I flushed. It was over. I rinsed the shower down well, not knowing what Lime Away might do to me, and took a victory shower. I had won this round.

Since then, I have killed a dozen assorted spiders and three stink bugs, seen two different varieties of lizard on the

Maizie, hard at work

porch, heard about a previous tenant’s encounter with a black snake, made friends with the dog, Maizie, who I think I would fire at this point, and ignored the dead baby bird that is resting (feet and beak up to the skies) just under my window. Oh, and I saw a deer  by the barn. We encountered each other when I walked around to the side of the house; it made a startled noise, like the sound of two wood blocks clapping. Who knew?  Maizie sleeps on the porch, missing it all, dreaming of belly rubs.

On Food

I don’t have to think much about meal planning here. There are microwaves for reheating and electric tea kettles on every floor. There is a full, well-equipped kitchen downstairs with three refrigerators, a small stove, a sink, a dish and cutlery cupboard and a cabinet with staples put out by Trudy and previous guests, consisting of tea, coffee, olive oil, vinegar, sugar, honey and so forth.

Here is what I brought with me:

• One package of low fat white cheddar flavored corn cakes
• A six pack of low sodium V8 juice
• An eight pack of Starbucks VIA coffee (extra bold Italian Roast flavor — I’m insane)
• 24 Mini Moos for the coffee; I should have brought 48
• A jar of organic crunchy peanut butter (exactly how big is one serving?)
• A bag of Cracker Barrel Extra Sharp Cheese Sticks, made with 2% milk
• An eight pack of Musselman’s Raspberry Acai applesauce, no sugar added
• A six pack of Kashi TLC Cherry Dark Chocolate Chewy Granola Bars
• A box of Kashi Heart to Heart Oat Flakes & Blueberry Clusters cereal
• Four Horizon Organic Reduced Fat Milk boxes for the cereal
• One bottle of Bella Sera Pinot Grigio

I could have used more wine.

On Writing

Art in the garden

But I came to write. The distractions are few, given that there’s no cell phone service and only intermittent wireless, provided by satellite. I guess dial-up was this slow, but that seems a long time ago. Anyway . . . I tell myself that I came to write, not to check my Facebook page or play Solitaire. There is a TV and some CDs and a piano downstairs, but nobody has gone near them. So we read and we write. Once in a while we go outside for air, one by one, or emerge from our rooms to gather up things for a meal.

There are only five of us here, and each has her own room. There is someone from Baltimore, who is writing about midwifery. Another from Ohio, writing her grandmother’s story. A gal from Kentucky is writing a novel. And the last one to arrive is from Charlottesville for a few days, to put the finishing touches on a young adult fantasy piece that she needs to get to an agent in a few weeks. We are all so different, and yet we have this common need to put one word in front of another and hope that it is good. We are different ages and races; we have lived in wildly different places (from Ghana and Haiti to San Diego and New York). Yet we are somehow the same in the shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. And we have each found that we can breathe here a little easier than we can at home, with nothing to do but read and write and think and take some simple nourishment.

Miraculously, I started writing on the very first day, outlining the piece about Verona that I am working on for Dream of Italy, Kathy McCabe’s wonderful bi-monthly love letter to the country that I am so in love with myself. It is a gift to have no outside distractions, but of course we give ourselves plenty of those, even without technology. Is Tim okay? Is he eating? Is he remembering to feed and walk Maxine? Does he notice that I’m gone? What if he doesn’t? These absurd questions roll around in my head enough so that I have to make an effort to keep them away. I laugh. It is hard to do what you need to do sometimes. I thank him silently for understanding. And then I write some more.

On Recommending

If you have a serious writing project that you can articulate to Trudy in an e-mail, by all means, apply for a residency at The Porches. She rents most typically by the week, but from time to time there are openings for short-term visitors like me. Bring your writing group here  — she loves that. She also hosts writing weekends here with guest facilitators from time to time. So check out her website and give yourself a break from your daily, interruptive routine — and come to write and be in this glorious part of the world. It’s affordable and exactly what you need. Just don’t forget the Lime Away . . .

Buon viaggio!

If we had to say what writing is, we would define it essentially as an act of courage. — Cynthia Ozick

My mother’s mother, Ida, stood about four foot eleven inches tall  and wore a size 3 and a  half shoe. The entire time that I knew her  (some 25 years) she wore variations of the classic  “little old lady”  shoe – chunky heeled, high vamp tie shoes that were  distinguished as  “Everyday” (plain white, navy or black leather)  and “Dressy” (black leather shoes with a velvet  vamp and decorative  little  holes). For many years, we drove from our house in Massapequa,  New York into New York City to the Dr. Scholl’s store on  34^th Street. Grandma would get her  foot measured professionally (did we think it had grown since last year?) and then view the  new  selections and pick out what she wanted. They had to be special  ordered, of course, so there was a return trip back to pick them up. All in all, this was a very expensive proposition for a very middle class working family. But hey, Grandma needed shoes, right?

Progress came when Dr. Scholl’s opened a store in the suburbs. Hempstead was still a haul, but not the teeth-shattering, anxiety provoking trip that going into Manhattan was for my family. One year, maybe 1963 or 1964, when Mom and I were on the “return trip” to pick up what Grandma had ordered, we stopped for a few minutes at a bookstore. I was about 14 years old, already an experienced angst-ridden young poet, and was scouring the shelves for something suitably shocking to get my mother to buy for me (these were the days of $1.00 a week allowances, so I couldn’t buy much for myself).

Anyway, Mom was getting impatient, standing in the front of the  store and waiting for me to come out of the stacks. Then I found  it: 100 Selected Poems,  by e.e. cummings. Originally published  in 1923, this was the first Evergreen Edition, from 1959, and it  bore a price tag of $1.75. I still have my copy, unglued cover and  all. I flipped through its pages and was very pleased with my  choice. Here was a book that, by its very publication, told me that  it was all right to break the rules. Lower case letters. Lines that  stretched across and up and down the page. No discernable  rhyme scheme. This would do nicely.

Of course, I had a passing acquaintance with cummings already, and had adopted his lower cases in some of my own poetry (as did most teen-aged girls at that time). But here (as was required in my household) was proof that this was legitimate. And that poetry itself could be lovely and nonsensical and horrifying — all in the same line.

I brought the book up to the cash register and my mother met me. She saw the little purple-covered book and rolled her eyes. But then something happened. The man behind the cash register looked at the book too, and then at me, and then back at the book. “You dig cummings, eh?” he said. My heart stopped. No one — not even my teachers, who knew I was an aspiring writer — had ever asked me what I “dug” before. I nodded feebly, trying to look as cool and grown-up as I possibly could, no mean feat for a chubby, introverted teenager whose idea of a good time was to actually get to listen to an entire side of the latest Peter, Paul and Mary album in peace. “Let’s see how much you know,” he went on. I was doomed. Then my mother got interested, clearly enjoying this.

He opened the book and began reading, “Buffalo Bill’s defunct . . .” and when he got to the line, “. . . and what I want to know is . . .” he stopped. Cold. And he looked at me. And my mother glared at me. And for a split second the world came to an end. And then, out of nowhere known to me, came these words from my mouth: “how do you like your blueeyed boy, Mister Death?” The clerk smiled and handed me the book. My mother was gobsmacked. I said thank you to the man and walked out the door, ahead of her, trembling, but trying to remain calm. I had been tested by a total stranger and passed. I knew something. I had all I could do not to cry as I made my way out into the sunshine.

Years later, I still ask myself where the hell that line came from. Sure, I had heard the poem before but I was not (and still am not) a memorizer. Somehow, that line of poetry stuck in my head, even at that early age. Even before I knew that I really would make my life among words. Even before I began to fill my rooms with books in earnest.

This is powerful stuff, poetry. So tell me: What poems do you remember? What lines still startle you? Keep you awake at night? Provide comfort in difficult situations? Make you smile? Beg to be shared? I’d love to know. Words are a kind of journey. Please take us with you.

Buon viaggio!

The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.  — G.K. Chesterton

We had been on the road for nearly two weeks. First we flew up to Boston from Richmond to spend a glorious few days with our friends in Salem. Then we took the train (I love the train) down to Mystic, CT for a week to visit with Tim’s mother, who was summering up in her old neighborhood. Our ultimate goal was to drive her and her cockapoo, Taffy, back down to Virginia at the end of the trip. In between, there’d be lots of time to visit with friends and get acquainted with this year’s crop of scallops and lobster. I confess I did a darn good job of it, too.

By the time we packed up on the last day, having washed and changed the linens and dumped the garbage, and so on, we knew that we would not be making the trip down in one day. It’s normally a 10 – 12 hour drive, with a few necessary stops, and we were getting much too late a start. We’d have to spend the night along the way (on the other side of New York City!) and we’d have to find a place that would take pets. As first Mom, then Tim, drove, I searched the internet — thank God for smart phones — for an interesting place to stay and then for a pet-friendly hotel.

As 5:00 rolled around, we were traveling through rural Maryland, exhausted from driving in and out of rainstorms and then sudden, bright sunshine. It was a strange day on the road. But then I found it: Annapolis. The Loews Hotel in Annapolis. Historic city. Pet-friendly hotel. Reasonable prices. Okay . . . we headed their way.

Sweet Annapolis

We drove into the city and I was immediately charmed by its antique houses and brick downtown, built around two circles: Church Circle and State Circle. Separated, of course. Most known for being the home of the United States Naval Academy, Annapolis is also home to St. John’s College (one of two Great Books Colleges, where students read over 130 great works of world literature during their four year stay — its sister college is in Santa Fe, NM). It’s also a place that I’m going back to, because it looks like there are many, many opportunities to feast and stroll among its wide array of quaint shops and restaurants.

Tim pulled up in front of the Loews and I jumped out to find out if they had a room available for the night. They did. And they were very excited to meet their new four-legged guest. Taffy received his own welcome kit: a Frisbee, a food mat, some treats, a brass bone-shaped collar charm, and lots of rubs. The room was terrific and we were unpacked in no time. Mom wanted to relax a little, have a drink and stay with Taffy. Tim and I were eager to do a little exploring, so we left them, promising to bring Mom something back for dinner. We didn’t get far.

Tim spotted a stately brick detached building virtually next door to the hotel. We went in and could not believe our eyes. Crush Winehouse, at 114 West Street, is the only true wine bar in Annapolis, providing opportunities for its patrons to not only taste, but also buy, fine wines. As the brochure says, “ . . . affordable, premium and uncommon . . . in a way that is fun, social, and unpretentious.” Its enomatic server allows patrons to sample a broad variety of wines by the glass (mostly Italian — I love that about this place!) that are typically only sold by the bottle. So you get a rare “try before you buy” experience.

And as if an array of handcrafted, artiginal wines was not enough, they also offer food to be savored along with the wines in the beautifully appointed lounge area. The menu, created by Chef Jon Rosa of San Francisco’s Cordon Bleu Culinary Academy, is based on fresh and seasonal ingredients. And his selection of handmade Parfection Chocolates, another Maryland enterprise, is out of this world.  The menu is small — perhaps 20 items at any given time — but each item is a masterpiece.

We began with Prosciutto Wrapped Dates with Truffled Honey, then moved on to an Asparagus and Mozarella Bruschetta. Tim had a Tuna Tartare which he said was out of this world. After sampling the earthy almonds and tangy olives, I had to try the Lavender Crème Brulee. All were highly memorable. We brought Mom back a Crispy Warm Duck Salad on Arugula with White Truffle Vinaigrette, which she ate greedily and determined that it was among the best duck she had ever had.

So although we went out expecting to find a nice pub or local Italian restaurant, we found a bit of nirvana. Crush’s founders, Bob Laggini and his partner, Janet Besanceney, have created something very special — a European Wine Bar in the heart of Annapolis. Intimate, warm, educational and fun. And our server, Sam — himself a student at St. John’s College — was very helpful in guiding us to proper food and wine pairings and giving us the heads-up on what we should not miss that night. We’ll be back — I suggest you go, too.

Buon viaggio!

“Traveling in the company of those we love is home in motion.” — Leigh Hunt

My beautiful Campari

It all started with the drink. I’ve adopted an Italian favorite as my summer drink this year. A tall, cold Campari and soda with a twist of lime. It’s the prettiest drink you’ve ever seen and — although I’ve been told it’s an acquired taste — it goes down very easy for me and it refreshes. In this summer of consistent 90-plus temperatures, that’s a good thing. But sitting on our deck, nursing the aforementioned beverage and twirling the end of the lemon patterned tablecloth that I bought in Sorrento a few years ago, I wondered why the hell I wasn’t in Italy. And then I wondered where I would want to be if I were. And I thought of Ferrara, that bicycle-mad city in the north.

I had gone to Ferrara the first time in May 2003 — May 25, to be exact. It was our friend’s

Bicycles everywhere!

birthday and that’s where he wanted to go. So we took a side trip from our villa in Sermide and drove the hour to Ferrara where, it just so happened, the Palio was taking place. How lucky can you get?

The Palio of St. George takes place on the last Sunday of May and begins with an indescribable parade from the Castello Estense to the palio grounds, where donkey races, horse races and other athletic competitions pit one comune against another in true medieval festival tradition. Representing the inhabitants of the various neighborhoods, or comuni, the Ferrarese walk regally through town dressed as royalty, as military men, as religious, as families, as entertainers . . . the only place you’ll see finer costumes is at a major opera house.

Palio parade

And when these Italians are in costume, it’s like you’ve walked into a Renaissance painting. This was a stunning and surreal sight to happen upon. While there were no tickets available for the main event, we did get to see the preliminary donkey races and were there long enough to scoop up a few of the palio flags. Quite a day.

Hot Air Balloon Festival poster

I was there again last September — this time, scheduled perfectly for the hot air balloons. In recent years, Ferrara has become the center of hot air ballooning and I must tell you that it is absolutely otherworldly to see Professor Marvel’s airships silently gliding over this old, historic city. What a crazy juxtaposition!

"I want to go to there . . ."

Ferrara is one of those remarkably well-located cities in Italy for visitors. On the same rail line as Bologna, Padova and Venice, Ferrara is the capital of its province, located in the region of Emilia-Romagna and situated on an extension of the Po River called the Po di Volano. A UNESCO Heritage Site, Ferrara is a beautiful walled city (the walls were begun in 1493) and is home to the second oldest university in Italy, which was established in 1393. Copernicus, a local boy, was a graduate of the University of Ferrara.

Tim and I went to Ferrara with our friends Jerry and Sharon and we were on a kind of mission. First we found the Jewish Cemetery near the city walls off Corso Porta Mare. It is a monument to the Ferrarese who died at Auschwitz (remember the movie The Garden of the Finzi-Continis?) and a reminder of the huge Jewish community that once thrived in the city. After that, we went looking for the old Synagogue and Jewish Museum, located in the heart of the medieval center of the city. This area was part of the Jewish Quarter in which the Jews were separated from the rest of the city from 1627 until 1859. After we found those, we were going to have lunch in the Osteria del Ghetto. Well, we timed it perfectly: the synagogue and museo were closed, so we only got to read the signs outside. But the restaurant was open for business and it was terrific.

Located on Via Vittoria, right in the heart of the Hebraic Ghetto of Ferrara, Osteria del Ghetto offers up carefully made regional and seasonal specialties, including mushrooms, pumpkin-stuffed pastas, horse, pork, wild boar, lamb and so on. And the desserts are spectacular, favoring marscapone cheese, fruit and chestnut honey. Add to that a wine list of 150+ selections, and you’ve got good reason to linger a while. Which we did.

Wall o' wine at Al Brindisi

After lunch we needed a walk, so we continued on about four blocks to Via degli Adelardi where we found the oldest “hostaria” in the world. According to the Guinness Book of Records, Al Brindisi was already known in 1435 and had an impressive list of patrons, among them the artist Titian and Torquato Tasso, the Sorrentine poet who spent some time in the Ferrara looney bin during his bout with insanity. (Hopefully, it had nothing to do with the wine selection . . .)

Apparently, Copernicus not only graduated from university in Ferrara, but he also lived in the first floor of the Al Brindisi building for a while. And we also learned that in 1973, on the occasion of Copernicus’ 500^th birthday, both Pope John Paul II and Cardinal Wiszinsky of Poland visited the hostaria. We spent a fair amount of time talking to the current owner, who has had the establishment handed down to him, as did his father before him. He loves American jazz and knows a whole lot about wines. We had a great time talking with him, but had to move on eventually.

The castello and the moat

The city has lots to offer. In 2006 Ferrara was named as a headquarters of the Italian Hermitage Museum — only the fifth city in the world to be linked with the iconic Russian institution. The city is anchored by the incredible Castello Estense, the defensive fortress of the Este dynasty which ruled the countryside for 400 years and produced — in addition to parks, palaces, and gardens — the duchess Lucrezia Borgia. A towering building constructed of the city’s famous rose-colored brick, Castello Estense is surrounded by a moat and drawbridges, while its four tall bastions keep a watchful on the city’s citizens. But this is no ordinary ruin of a castle. With its frescoed walls and frescoed, vaulted ceilings, court kitchens and apartments, a loggia, garden and chapels, the Castello Estense is a magnificent structure that encapsulates some 500 years of history.

And let’s not forget the overseer of the original “bonfire

Scary Savonarola

of the vanities,” Giralomo Savonarola, the 15^th Century Dominican priest and political reformer who was another of Ferrara’s native sons. Oh, he had a tough time of it: accused of heresy, excommunicated and finally both hung and burned. His likeness still stands in one of the piazzas, reminding us that life under the Medicis could be a bit uneven.

Other attractions include the University of Ferrara, the old City Hall with its Renaissance campanile, and the Palazzo Schifanoia, built in 1385 for the Este family, with its frescoes depicting the life of Borso d’Este, the signs of the zodiac and allegorical representations of the months. And there’s so much more. The certosa (a Carthusian monastery), Corpus Domini Monastery, several more Renaissance palaces, a dozen or more churches . . . just a typical little Italian city. Not.

So as I sip my Campari here in Vriginia, I realize that Ferrara is just another one of those magical places that I need to go back to, like so many other places I’ve seen in my Italian travels. Like Lucca, Sorrento, Verona, Padova. Sigh. Once is not enough. And bring on the cappellaci di zucca!

Buon viaggio!

It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them. — Ralph Waldo Emerson

Tim and I went home for a few days last week.

The Friendship of Salem

That sounds odd, even to me, since Tim grew up in New Jersey and Connecticut and I grew up in New York. But I realize now that while we can be “at home” in many places — and we have been — there’s always one place that really takes you in. That accepts you unconditionally, warts and all. One place that opens its arms and lets you revel in its history, its successes, its failures, its politics, its dreams and its people for a time. That lets you make a mark if you want to or just sit back and enjoy the ride, if that’s more your style. Salem, Massachusetts, our home for nearly 11 years, is such a place.

Salem's Native Son

We lived at the corner of Bott’s Court and Essex Street in a three-story gambrel house built in 1735 by the Pickering family of Salem. During that time we either became members of or were active on the boards of a raft of organizations: The Salem Athenaeum, Hamilton Hall, Historic Salem, The House of Seven Gables, Peabody Essex Museum . . . there was never a lack of things to do or to get involved in. Sometimes it nearly killed us, but we never felt ignored. That’s the beauty of community. That, and its people. And the people of Salem have been wonderful, cantankerous, creative, stubborn, enterprising, civic-minded characters for more than 300 years. (Forget those pesky witch trials, which really had nothing to do with witches. They were more or less precipitated by teenage hysteria that paved the way nicely for a political land grab. But I digress . . .)

We left town almost five years ago, after many battles — some more successful than others — with state and local governments and local organizations. We saw progress made and we saw progress thwarted. Preservation is always a sticky issue, and it is no different in Salem. Were we obstructionists, standing in the way of progress? I don’t think so. Once a beautiful building is gone, it’s gone forever. Once 200-year-old trees are cut down, you have to wait a mighty long time for replacements. Once you start pulling up ancient paving stones and replacing them with asphalt . . . well, you get the idea. Anyway, we, like a lot of other folks, spent a fair amount of time fighting the powers that be. So we wondered what it would be like to come back this time. We were delighted.

62 on Wharf Appetizers: home-made mortadella, bruschetta and arancini

New restaurants have come into town, and we ate at several of them: 62 on Wharf, Gulu-Gulu and Coven to name just three. New retail shops have arrived and are delighting not only Salemites, but folks from across the whole North Shore, as well. I personally did my bit for the local economy in J.Mode, Roost, and Two Girls. The Old Salem Jail has finally been repurposed and will offer condos and a brand new restaurant (The Great Escape!). New small businesses are streaming into town, adding to the city’s tax base and offering much-needed services. The old Salem Willows park is still alive and kicking, and although I didn’t get a chance to play Skee-Ball at the arcade this time, I’m delighted to report that it continues to provide a challenge (and the silliest prizes ever) for a new generation. And Hobbs still serves up its homemade taffy, popcorn and ice cream. Things could be a lot worse.

Hobbs Lives!!

Of course, it’s not all a success. The new courthouse looks like a giant blight on the landscape (there’s always one, right?) and Ft. Lee is as overgrown as ever, despite Tim’s attempts (with his friend Mike Williamson) to keep it cut back and healthy. I hear there are always new battles to be fought, and so it goes. Life in Salem: never a dull moment. A wonderful housing stock just a 30-minute train ride from Boston . . . deep history going back to the original settlers . . . lots to do and see (even apart from the witch stuff) . . . and some of the most famous and important names in Massachusetts, including Bowditch, Derby, Crowninshield, Hawthorne, Ropes, Peabody, Saltonstall, Putnam and Storey, who got their starts (or their fame) there.

Here’s a typical Salem story: we were standing outside of our old house and Tim was taking a picture of me. A man was walking up the court and he saw us switch places, so that I could then take a picture of Tim. He stopped and asked if he could take a picture of both of us in front of the house. When we told him it was our old house, he insisted, and took several.

Here’s another: our old neighbors — who arranged for more cocktail parties, dinners and get-togethers while we were there than we could ever have imagined — are now arguing over who will house us when we come back next. It’s as if we never left. Nobody missed a beat. We even got into a scrape with the local power plant on our last day. It was just like old times. Thanks, Salem! Who knows? Maybe we’ll be back . . .

Meanwhile, try some of our favorites: In a Pig’s Eye (especially Friday afternoons, when Eric Reardon, the owners’ son plays a mean blues guitar); the Lyceum on Church Street, where Alexander Graham Bell sent the first telephone call; a ferry ride from Salem into Boston; and a side trip to Rocky Neck in Gloucester, the historic artists colony and fishing village made famous by George Clooney in A PERFECT STORM. Go. Peace. Shalom. Salem.

Buon viaggio!

Make voyages! Attempt them. There’s nothing else. — Tennessee Williams

I made a voyage the other day, and it was bon. A few months ago, the local sailing club invited Tim and me on a two-hour cruise (as opposed to Gilligan’s three-hour cruise) along the York River. Of course we said yes. Sometimes the best discoveries are found only a short distance from home.

Although the cruise was scheduled to leave the dock at 2:00, four of us piled into the car at 10:30 for the 90-minute drive from our house to Yorktown. Tim and I and our friends Sharon and Jerry decided it would be fun to have lunch before boarding, especially since we were not at all excited about the prospect of beer and hoagies on board. So we picked out a place from among the online choices, and headed down to Yorktown and the Carrot Tree Kitchens.

Historically, Yorktown is probably most famous for being the site of the siege and surrender of British General Cornwallis to American General George Washington during the American Revolutionary War (in 1781), effectively ending the war a short time later. Yorktown figured prominently again during the American Civil War when it served as a port for both the North and the South, depending on who held the city at that particular time. Today, Yorktown is one of the three cities that comprise the “Historic Triangle,” along with Williamsburg and Jamestown.

The historic Cole-Digges House

The first thing we learned on our expedition is that the York River is not a river at all; it is an estuary. This we discovered while reading the menu in our charming little restaurant selection, Carrot Tree Kitchens.  Itself an historic destination, Carrot Tree is housed in the oldest building in Yorktown, the Cole Digges Houses, circa 1720. Digges, the son of the most successful tobacco grower in the area, bought the property that the house stands on in 1713 because of its proximity to the wharves and warehouses on nearby Read Street. A merchant by trade, Digges did quite well.

You cannot believe how good this is!

In the early 21st Century, the National Park Service — in its efforts to preserve the building — asked for proposals from “low-impact” businesses to use the space. Because of this stipulation, the Carrot Tree (which opened in 2003) cannot have commercial dishwashing or high heat sources on the premises. Yep – every dish is washed by hand (okay, there’s a lot of plastic used, but still . . .). Anyway, as you can imagine, carrots feature prominently on the menu. The sandwiches and veggie tart are outstanding, as is the turkey burger. The carrot salad is unique (sliced, cooked carrots; not the usual shredded and raw) and delicious. And the carrot cake is the best any of us have ever tasted. And that’s saying something, since carrot cake is a major food group for me. Great service and good food in an adorable setting. What a way to start our adventure!

The Schooner Alliance

We walked over to the dock after lunch and before long were able to board the Alliance, the main entertainment for the afternoon.  A 105’ gaff rigged schooner modeled after similar ships in use from the 1850s, the Alliance was built in 1995 in Palm Coast, Florida by Treworgy Yachts. Originally working as a charter ship in the Maine Windjammer fleet under the name Kathryn B., she was bought by Yorktown Sailing Charters in 2005 and renamed the Alliance, in honor of the French-American alliance that was instrumental in our war of independence. No electric winches here; all riggings are set manually and day sailors can help the crew of three however much they want. (Or don’t. I for instance, am a purely ornamental sailor.). The Alliance makes three sailings daily from Yorktown’s Riverwalk Landing from April ‘til October. She winters in the Caribbean, where week-long charters are available for up to eight guests. I think the captain, Greg Lohse, may have gotten at least one week booked during this outing. . .

Ahoy, mateys!

The sunset cruises must be magnificent, and maybe that’s the next adventure in Yorktown. Noiselessly navigating the waters, drink in hand (or not), under full sail, imagining life at sea in years gone by . . . not something you do everyday. As we cruised back into the harbor, rested and getting a little damp from the drizzle that decided to fall and cool us off, we decided that Dorothy was right. Sometimes, there’s just no place like home. And you don’t have to cross an ocean to have a new adventure.

Buon viaggio!

San Francisco is a city where people are never more abroad than when they are at home. — Benjamin F. Taylor

Our first day in San Francisco was pretty typical for us. Since I know how Tim likes to follow his nose, and since there were two things that I absolutely, positively wanted to see, I suggested that we do those on Day One. Then I didn’t really care how the rest of the week unfolded; it would all be an adventure.

So what were these “must-sees”? Well, I guess it’s all that traveling to Europe, but I had to make a pilgrimage to Grace Cathedral. It was only a few walkable blocks from the hotel where we were staying, and struck quite a pose against the city skyline, so I had to take a look. I also knew that there was an active AIDS Interfaith Chapel inside, so I wanted to go and see what that was all about. Stop Two? Had to be North Beach, the city’s Italian-Beatnik enclave that’s a natural for any self-respecting writer of Italian background to have on her list. So off we went . . .

Grace Cathedral

A house of prayer for all people, without exception

Window magic at the cathedral

Nestled between California and Sacramento Streets, off Taylor, sits Grace Cathedral, the country’s third largest Episcopal cathedral. Sitting on the site of railroad baron and banker Charles Crocker’s Nob Hill mansion (which was destroyed in the unpleasantness of 1906), the Cathedral is cleverly built of concrete and steel, despite its Gothic look, and was designed to stand up to the city’s seismic fluctuations. So far, so good . . .

The original Grace church, built in 1849, sat on the corner of California and Stockton Streets and was destroyed in the earthquake; Crocker gave his land for the construction of a new cathedral when his own house succumbed. Work on the cathedral, designed by Lewis Hobart, began in 1928 and was completed in 1964. Inspired by Notre Dame in Paris — with an interior Chapel of Grace that looks a lot like Sainte Chapelle — Grace Cathedral is an impressive structure, even by European standards.

The belfry’s 44 bronze bells — one of which tolls on the hour —and 25-foot Rose Window are astonishing. And the cathedral’s 7,500-pipe Aoelian Skinner organ is one of the largest in the country. The stained glass is staggering here, even the 20^th Century windows, which depict notables like John Glenn and Albert Einstein. In the entryway, San Franciscan sculptor Beniamino (Benny) Bufano’s larger-than-life statue of St. Francis of Assisi offers a smooth and pleasing welcome.

The Doors of Heaven, SF

The front doors are bronze and gold plated replicas of Lorenzo Ghiberti’s Doors of Paradise (also called Gates of Paradise), considered to be the first and greatest masterpiece of the Italian Renaissance. The Florentine sculptor’s originals were, of course, made for the Baptistery of the Duomo in Florence and tell the story of the Old and New Testaments. The doors of Grace Cathedral were actually struck from the very same molds used for the originals. Look closely and you’ll see the stories of Creation, the Flood, Moses receiving the Law, David and Goliath and more.

The midday sun reflected wildly off the doors as we stood outside talking with a very generous Rick Felton, Interim Director of Development for the Cathedral. He gave us an enormous amount of time, talking about the state of things in the city and at Grace, and gave us a real back-stage tour of the incredible building. Standing on the balcony, overlooking the sanctuary, is a breathtaking experience I’ll never forget. And off the side of the rear balcony — on the second level of the bell tower —was the entrance to the cathedral’s Columbarium, which was closed that day, but Rick granted us a tour, anyway.

The Columbarium offers an alternative to in-ground internment within the consecrated Chapel of Saint Francis as well as a relevant way to earn income for the cathedral. Here’s the idea: Historically, many churches have laid their dead to rest in churchyards or within their walls (think Westminster Abbey). The Columbarium — derived from the Latin word columba, meaning dove) — offers a place of perpetual rest and care for the cremated remains of the sons and daughters of Grace Cathedral. Ashes are stored in a sealed bronze urn that is placed permanently in the Columbarium and a bronze plaque on the door identifies the remains. Commital service and quarterly requiem services are offered, and who knew I’d get so excited about an indoor cemetery? I don’t know. It just seems like a good idea for both the living and the dead. Moving on . . .

The interior labyrinth

One of my favorite things about Grace Cathedral was the presence of not one, but two labyrinths — one outside and one inside. The labyrinth, an ancient pattern with no dead ends (unlike a maze), is walked today to “quiet the mind, find balance and encourage meditation, insight and creativity.” The outside one is available 24/7 for walking and contemplation. The indoor one is open during cathedral hours except during special events. I prayed my first labyrinth inside and am happy to report that I did not dizzy myself into a fall, which looked like a real possibility on a few turns. So much for achieving balance.

Keith Haring's screen, The Life of Christ

And then there was the AIDS Interfaith Chapel. Dedicated in 2000 as a memorial to the nearly 20,000 San Franciscans who have died of AIDS, this chapel is a place of “meditation, healing and remembrance for caregivers and those who are still fighting against the disease.”

The centerpiece of the Chapel is a bronze and gold triptych altarpiece by artist Keith Haring (called The Life of Christ) which was completed just weeks before his own death of AIDS in 1990. On either side of the triptych are symbols of the world’s religions, including Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Shinto, Hinduism, Taoism, Jainism, Buddhism, indigenous faiths and all other faiths. A huge panel from the NAMES project hangs across the small chapel. And although this is a very Catholic thing to do, and although I am not even an Episcopalian, I went over and lit a candle for the friends I have lost, the ones still fighting and the ones who are looking out for them. And then I had to walk out into the sunshine.

North Beach

From the Cathedral, we walked over to North Beach, heading for ethnicity and lunch. I wanted to take Tim up Columbus Avenue to all things Italian and then make my requisite trip to City Lights Bookstore and Vesuvio Café.

We marched through Chinatown with its windows full of food and things that I assume are food but wouldn’t want put on a plate in front of me, and marveled at the hustle and bustle on the streets. We might as well have been in Beijing: street signs, temple-edged buildings and gates — all Chinese. I must say we were getting very hungry and pretty temped to stop for lunch in Chinatown, but we soldiered on and made our way to the Italian section before long.

There are so many choices. Touristy (but still good) places like The Stinking Rose and Caffe Trieste — which allegedly served the first cup of espresso on the West Coast in the 1950s —still offer better than average food and beverage experiences. And as we walked up Columbus Avenue and crossed Broadway (the scene of many a naughty piece of business in the 1960s and 1970s), we started to get confused. I was leaning towards the Sicilian Trattoria Pinocchio, well-known in the guidebooks and no doubt very good. But then Tim found one of his gems. A little place called L’Osteria del Forno at 519 Columbus Avenue. We walked in.

Family-run Osteria del Forno is a storefront affair, with maybe ten tables in sight. Our server, Ormenia, came from a town near Torino in the Piemonte region in the north. She brought us a basket of arguably the best focaccia ever and then made some recommendations for our lunch. I kept it light: a very nice salad and a huge slice of funghi pizza, which was just right. Tim shared my salad and had a lamb dish that he said was to die for. A carafe of pinot grigio and we were happy people. We even had espresso to fortify us for the next stop.

The Spirit of City lLghts

Walking the block or two back to Broadway and Columbus, we climbed into the historic space that is City Lights Booksellers & Publishers. City Lights has a long and fabled past. Founded in 1953 by poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti, City Lights has been home to the beats, the protest poets, out of sorts academics, out of work writers, myriad creative types and creative wanna-bes and general vagabonds of all kinds who flock to the store to reside a while amongst its narrow aisles. But make no mistake: City Lights is not just an historical stop on the Beat Nostalgia trail. Not just a literary landmark. It is a vibrant and important independent bookstore, totally tuned into the 21^st Century and very much a home for a new generation of readers and writers. And if you’re lucky (I was, a few years ago), you can still see Ferlinghetti himself up in the Poetry Room or replenishing shelves. I was gob-smacked.

But the importance of City Lights goes far beyond being just another groovy bookstore. In 1955, Ferlinghetti launched the Pocket Poets Series, most notable for the publication of Allen Ginsberg’s masterpiece, Howl, which resulted in an obscenity charge. Other poets in the series include Jack Kerouc, Denise Levertov, William Carlos Willams and Ferlinghetti himself, among many others. Today City Lights Books has nearly 200 titles in print, and has moved beyond poetry to include cutting-edge fiction, memoirs, literary translations and books on important social and political issues.

Across Jack Kerouc Alley lies Vesuvio, the dark and historic watering hole that was home to the Beats and the Hippies and tries to continue its counterculture tradition, despite the TV in the bar and the too-fresh-face-looking bar staff. No matter. We enjoyed a chance to sit and rest before our walk back down to the hotel.

Cool, man

Vesuvio opened in 1948 and remains a monument to jazz, poetry, art and all things Beat. Today it attracts a diverse clientele, as reported on the saloon’s website, including “artists, chess players, cab drivers, seamen and business people, European visitors, off-duty exotic dancers and bon vivants from all walks of life.” So we added to that diversity, I guess. I had a boring Campari and soda and Tim had a beer and we sat amongst the decoupaged walls, weird stained glass windows and psychedelic décor wondering what the hell we were doing there.

All things Italian

Finally, we headed back to the hotel, but not before stopping at Molinari & Sons. Established in 1896, Molinari offers an incredible array of Italian salumi, cheese, bread, fresh salads, olives and so on. Certainly enough to make a dinner out of, which we did. Cans of olive oil were piled to the ceiling, as were cartons of wine from every region of Italy. We got a little bread (un po di pane), a little gorgonzola (no translation needed) and a little sopresatta, a dry-cured salami, and then Franco helped us out with a little wine. All we needed. We staggered back to the room after a very full, very rewarding first day and collapsed before 9:00. My feet were already killing me.

Now that’s what I call a vacation!

Buon viaggio!

A few months ago, this blogsite sponsored a travel writing contest for professional travel writers. Thanks to all who entered . . . we received some really nice pieces of writing about places all around the world. But the winner, hands down, was Alison Bell, who writes here of her trip to Kenya. Thanks, Alison! Your copy of Up at the Villa: Travels with my Husband is on its way!

Kenya

Is that a rock or a hippo? I’m sipping cold, crisp white wine on a beautiful veranda in hot sunshine overlooking a river, while trying to work out what the big grey lump is about 50 metres away from where I’m relaxing. It’s not moving so it must be a rock. I return to the same spot for my hearty breakfast the next morning and my big grey rock had gone. My first wild hippo sighting and I hadn’t even realised.

They’ll be plenty of other opportunities though, for this is Kenya, the mother of all safari destinations. Kenya’s big draw is its diversity and its value for money. There’s the dense landscape of Samburu, complete with all the unique varieties of animals, the beautiful beaches of Mombasa and the expanse of the Masai Mara, to name but a few attractions. We headed to the Mara but not before spending some time in Nairobi before our internal flight to our barefoot luxury camp.

Mama & baby baboon

First stop was the Nairobi National Park (home to an elephant orphanage and giraffe centre) and Animal Orphanage, about a 15-minute car journey from the city centre. We didn’t have time to do one of the safari walks on offer or car tours of the park (on which you can see most of the big game as well as up to 500 different varieties of bird) but we did wander around the orphanage which is more like a small zoo, where, as you’d expect, you get to see plenty of cute baby versions being cared for after their parents have either died or been killed by poachers. Among the rescued animals were one-month old cheetahs, five-month old lion cubs, young giraffe, leopard, hyenas and jackals.

On safari

The smooth flight to our camp took 45 minutes and our tiredness was eradicated

The Water Buffalo Looks On

straight away as we were greeted by our guide and taken straight out on our first evening safari. The guides there operate three safaris a day – one early morning, one late morning and one early evening until dusk – and each one offers slightly different opportunities to see the animals. Our first outing was a successful one; our guide had spotted some young cheetahs before collecting us so as well as the hundreds of zebra and wildebeest that roam the Mara, we were also lucky enough to see some big cats before the spectacular sun set.

The Mara Explorer camp is in the heart of the Masai Mara Game Reserve on the Talek River and, although home to a large selection of smaller animals (faffette monkeys and bush babies included), big animals are kept at bay by an electric fence. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be disturbed by their noises in the night as I discovered when I woke up after what could have been a hungry hippo roar, vibrating through our linen tent walls.

The camp has a restaurant, bar, gift shop and pool, and each tent is comfortable and roomy. In fact, the word ‘tent’ is slightly misleading as the only resemblance this accommodation has to camping is the fact that the walls are fabric. The interior, however, has everything a four-star hotel room would offer.

The Big Five

Leopard, one of the Big Five

Early morning, before it gets too hot, is the best time to catch sightings of the big game. Staff at the camp bring a hot drink to the tent to soften the early morning wake-up call and it’s in the Jeep for 6.30am to try and tick off as many of the Big Five (elephant, rhino, buffalo, lion and leopard) as possible. Other animals to spot include giraffes, cheetahs, topi, water buck, baboons and various birds including vultures, eagles and ostrich.

We were lucky enough to spot all of the Big Five bar the rather elusive rhino; not for lack of searching, they are just particularly difficult to spot in that area. But one amazing spectacle we did get to witness was a water crossing of hundreds of zebra and wildebeest. Grouped together at the side of the river, they must have been discussing tactics for about half an hour before one wildebeest made its move. Dramatically launching itself into the river, the rest followed as they scrambled to tackle the current and avoid the hungry waiting crocs. The majority made it, but the crocs were fed as part of the natural bargain.

Relaxing into the wild

For a slightly wilder experience, halfway through our week’s safari, we moved to Mara Explorer, Mara Intrepids’ sister camp nearby, both run by Heritage Hotels. This is a smaller camp with fewer tents but offers even more luxury without the aid of an electric fence. As a result, when it’s dark, you have to radio for an escort to take you to and from the restaurant. In both camps, the bars overlook the river so you can relax with a Tusker beer and try and spot the animals as they try and cool down in the water.

The Explorer camp offers little extras like a secluded outside bath on the room’s veranda and romantic dinners in the bush, but both camps have various activities on offer (at an extra cost) such as a safari walk, hot air balloon rides, sundown cocktails outside the camp, a visit to a local Masaai family, or you can choose to have your breakfast or lunch as a picnic while on safari as part of the package.

Each safari experience is different, and each day offers different spectacles from the

The Lioness

most heartwarming (like cheetah cubs happily playing in our vehicle’s wheels) to the more gruesome (a lioness killing a young wildebeest for its cubs) but safaris do offer a first-hand look at nature, which is something far beyond a documentary. And what’s more, you’ll be treated like the king of the jungle.

After over 12 years in various editorial roles, Alison is now a freelance journalist specialising in travel, charity and property writing. Previous experience has included editing magazines and copy subbing on business newspapers. Follow her travels at www.alisonbell.net.

San Francisco is 49 square miles surrounded by reality. — Paul Kanter, Jefferson Airplane

My mother absolutely adored San Francisco. Like so many before her, she claimed the City as her own. She and I lived there for only three months back in 1952, but somehow the experience never left — her or me — and I was a mere three years old at the time.

My father, a hydraulic/pneumatic engineer at Grumman Aerospace in New York, was assigned to a Navy contract out in northern California at the time. He was there for several weeks alone and missed his family terribly, it seems. So much so that he and a bunch of other Grummanites— and a few sailors who were stationed there — soon took a weekend trip to some newfangled place in the desert called Las Vegas. Dad (who was normally tighter than a tick and would never voluntarily throw money away) gambled — and won — enough to buy two tickets for a transcontinental flight for me and Mom. So Mom packed us up, somehow got us to Idelwild Airport, and together we boarded the PanAm flight for the left coast and the City by the Bay.

Mom and me, 1952

Dad retrieved us at the airport and drove us to what would be our home away from home: a suite in the (now defunct) Alameda Hotel, across the Bay in Oakland.  I remember it as a huge, ornate pink stucco building with massive palm trees out in front; alas, I am not a reliable narrator yet at three years of age. But there are some things I absolutely remember.

I remember that one of our stewardesses (we called them that back then) stayed at the hotel from time to time (as did many other airline personnel, I imagine). And I remember her doing cartwheels on the front lawn of the Alameda with me.

I remember being babysat by (in retrospect) painfully young sailors when my parents wanted to get away in the evening. One in particular, a cute guy named Chuck, was famous for making me strawberry shortcakes with gobs of whipped cream (no pun intended). I believe he was my first crush.

I remember going to Children’s Fairyland and climbing in and out of the Old Woman’s Shoe and the Three Pigs houses and the Blue Whale that made my storybooks come to life.

I remember sleeping on a Murphy bed that pulled down from the kitchen wall into the living room, and that a leaky faucet in the kitchen kept me up half the night.

I remember almost falling out the window one afternoon when I saw my father coming up the front walk to the hotel entrance. I was so excited to see my daddy. ‘Bout scared us all half to death!

I remember going to the Cliff House on the Pacific Ocean for lunch. I called it the “Clip House” because I was missing some teeth at the time, but I loved to watch the seals on the rocks outside the window and feel the ocean breeze on my face when we walked around outside.

The Cliff House today

I didn’t know about Eloise at the Plaza yet, but looking back, I must have been a poor, but happy relation. When my folks weren’t giving me the attention I thought I so richly deserved, I remember that I would sneak out of the apartment and go down to the lobby bar. Planting myself on a stool, I would promptly be served a Shirley Temple (extra cherries, please) and the TV (still a fairly new gadget) dial would be clicked over until it found some kind of cartoon show or other suitable programming for a patron such as myself. Maybe Ding Dong School? Possibly Pinky Lee? My memory isn’t that good. I only know that when they finally realized I was missing, my parents always knew just where to find me. Imagine doing that now . . .

So why this walk down Memory Lane? Simply because I left a little piece of my you-know-what in San Francisco and Tim and I recently spent a week there. We stayed in the City, but did the requisite trips to Sonoma and Napa and then spent a night in Cromberg, up in the Sierra Nevadas. More on that adventure another time. Because I’m just getting warmed up. I’ll tell you all about what we did and what we saw. I’ll tell you about the pilgrimage to a few choice spots in the City and then up to Oroville, to learn about where Tim’s ancestors on his mother’s side settled in the mid 1800s — and why. But for now, I want to tell you about our new home away from home, the Hotel Carlton.

A few months ago, when we made the decision to go to San Francisco, I jumped on the internet and found a few remarkable packages. Getting in and out of Richmond, Virginia isn’t always the most cost-effective way to fly, but I found a trip that flew right out of Richmond (through Dallas on the front end and through Detroit on the back end, and there is no ulterior message in that statement). Anyway, the “economy” version of the trip put people up in the Hotel Carlton. I asked a friend who had lived there for years about the location and she said it was fine. Nob Hill. Centrally located. Near Van Ness, Geary, Union Square . . . not far from downtown. Go for it, she said. So we did.

Now, it turns out that the hotel is a little on that edge of Nob Hill that moves into the area known as the Tenderloin which used to not be so good. We had no problems. And when I saw the transvestite with the elegant orange damask sheath dress walking up Jones Street in her dirty blonde wig and single striped stocking, a la the Wicked Witch of the West, sounding a lot like Brenda Vaccaro, complaining to a friend, I thought it was just part of the entertainment. We even went back the next day to Jones Street for a memorable breakfast at Dottie’s True Blue Café, also on Jones Street, where you have to wait on line even at 7:00 in the morning. But that gives you a chance to study the Apologia taped to the door, which is a must-read. And the food is to die for.

But back to the Hotel Carlton. Part of the Joie de Vivre Hotel group — California’s largest boutique hotel collection — known for rehabbing small hotels in unique places, the Carlton has a joy all its own which it generously passes on to its patrons.  An extra benefit (which we learned the next day) is that the hotel is built on a strong metal cage and withstood the 7.1 earthquake in 1989 with only one broken window. I could sleep here.

We were warmly welcomed upon arriving (at 12:30 a.m., local time) and found ourselves to be part of a real community for the next week. Complimentary local wine tastings in the lobby every afternoon. Entertainment, ranging from a string quartet from the Golden Gate Symphony one night to the keyboard musings of one of the staff another night. Always choreographed and made jolly by Edgar, another staff member, who made it his mission to be sure that everyone was comfortable, had full glasses and were enjoying themselves. He introduced us to the small English tour groups that came through and was a huge promoter of the hotel’s restaurant, Saha.

Lights in Saha

Serving Arabic fusion cuisine, Saha puts out Yemeni-inspired masterpieces every night and is managed by the husband and wife team of Mohamed and Marmee Aboghanem. Saha (which is a toast to good health) never disappointed – not even for breakfast, where the place is served by the indomitable Kate Rabbit, who brought us the best coffee we’d ever had every morning, along with a unique perspective on life. And speaking of bests . . . Tim had the best salad he’d ever had in his life here: arugula and mint with grilled chicken livers and gorgonzola, sauteed white peaches and honeyed pecans, drizzled with a balsamic vinaigrette. Makes me want to go back just for that . . . I had a curried lentil soup and then curried butternut squash, asparagus and lentils with Israeli couscous. And don’t even ask about Tim’s duck breast with yams. This is no ordinary hotel restaurant, folks. This is a destination.

A presto, Gio and Edgar!

Sure, the rooms at Hotel Carlton are a little small, but the bed was amazing, the products were great and the location couldn’t be beat. Add to that the “family” feel, and it’s a no-brainer that we’ll be going back. And we’ll try other Joie de Vivre hotels as we move up and down the California coast. It was hard to leave — how many hotels can you say that about? So to Edgar and Giovanni and Theo and Kate and anyone else we missed . . . thank you for taking us in and making us part of your lives for a while. We’ll be back and we’ll bring friends with us to meet our new friends in San Francisco. Who needs reality, anyway?

Buon viaggio!

Tim and me and the Pacific Ocean/Cliff House