Iceland is surprising, sophisticated and a great jumping off point for your European travels.

Picture an island the size of Kentucky. Then add about 300,000 people and put 200,000 of them in the capital city. Make the people outside the city rugged farmers and. Throw in a long tradition of storytelling (sagas) and a history of rough sea voyages, Viking settlements and bloody battles. Don’t forget to add more active volcanoes than anywhere else on earth, a few huge glaciers and geysers and spectacular waterfalls that drop several hundred feet from lava cliffs. Sprinkle in the many geothermal spas that dot the landscape (and go a long way towards powering the island). There. You’ve got it. Welcome to Iceland.

The iconic Blue Lagoon at 10:00 a.m.

A quick five-and-a-half hour flight from Washington, D.C., Iceland is a land of stark contrasts. In Reykjavik, you’ll find a young, modern city where the partying and music scene go on into the wee hours. But outside the city, it’s a land where sheep, cattle and small horses graze contentedly and where its lava-encrusted countryside looks like a lichen-laced lunar landscape. Every turn on Highway 1, the ring road completed in 1974, takes your breath away.

Whether you’re into history and museums, spa rejuvenation, skiing, whale and puffin watching, ice climbing, horseback riding, rafting on glacial rivers or simply enjoying a steaming cup of swiss mokka and shopping in a vibrant and sophisticated European city, Iceland has something to offer. World-class entertainment came to Reykjavik this year, too, with the opening of the new Harpa Concert Hall on the harbor. And while Icelandic is the official language — not dissimilar to what the Vikings spoke when they arrived 1,000 years ago — most city folks speak better English than we do.

Gullfoss ("Golden") Falls

I confess I’d heard horror stories about meals of boiled sheep’s head, fermented shark meat and smoked puffin. But while those might be available, Iceland is known today for its small, delicious lobsters, lobster soup, Arctic Charr and home-grown lamb. The Icelanders also use greenhouse technology to create an abundance of fresh fruits and vegetables — even bananas. And the array of yogurt (skyr) at our breakfast buffet each morning was stunning. But while Icelanders are fabulously proud of their local cuisine, they are also nuts about burgers, ice cream and their own version of hot dogs (pylsurs), made with red sausage and served with “the works.”

What to do in Iceland? First, make a stop at the Blue Lagoon and experience geothermal bliss in mineral-rich water that ranges from 98º – 102º F. You can also book a variety of spa treatments, but you may never want to leave the lagoon itself. Then take the famous Golden Circle Tour and see the Gullfoss (“Golden”) Falls, which tumbles 32 meters into a stunning double cascade. You’ll also see the Geysir hot springs in the Haukadular geothermal field — Strokkur was very accommodating, going off as scheduled every 5 minutes or so. Then go see the UNESCO World Heritage Site, Thingvellir National Park, long the site of the Alpingi, or Viking parliament. Right there also sits the Mid-Atlantic ridge, where Europe and America drift apart — causing many of the earthquakes in the region. Continue on to the South Shore, where you’ll see glaciers and pass by Katla, the volcano geologists expect to blow very soon. You can even stop by the Thorvaldseyri farm that had to evacuate during Eyjafjallajökull’s infamous 2010 eruption, stalling international air traffic for days. And this is just the beginning.

Strokkur Geysir erupting -- right on time

An added feature to visiting Iceland is that you can book a flight into Keflavik Airport, spend up to seven nights in the capital city and then go on to one of several European destinations with no penalty charges. Check out the stopover booking engine on Icelandair’s website for more details. For me, Iceland was a revelation and I’m looking forward to going back.

IF YOU GO . . .

Icelandair flies direct to Keflavik from Dulles Airport, but you can also depart from Richmond and go through JFK. Check out the “extras” on the website (www.icelandair.co.uk) and plan your own tour or look for all-inclusive tour operators.

If you’re a stargazer and want to try for the Aurora Borealis, I recommend traveling with MWT Associates (www.melitatrips.com. Look for the Northern Lights and Lava Fields Tour. Conditions weren’t right the week we went, but the skies are breathtaking nonetheless.

We stayed in the Grand Hotel Reykjavik, on the outskirts of town. The staff was friendly and accommodations were comfortable (www.grand.is). But to be right in town, consider the Hotel Centrum (www.hotelcentrum.is) or the Radisson Blu 1919 (www.radissonblu.com/1919hotel-reykjavik). And Icelandair is opening up its own city center hotel in March 2012, the Reykjavik Marina (http://icelandairhotels.com/news/icelandair-hotel-reykjavik-marina-open-central-reykjavik).

Rainbow over the lava fields

For good eats, don’t miss the Fish Company (www.fishcompany.is/English) and, if you have time, order its eye-opening “Around Iceland” menu. It’s four courses of iconic fish, lamb and yogurt dishes from all parts of the island. For something more casual, stop in at the harborside Sea Baron/Saegreifinn (www.lvoe.ca/index.php?q=node83) and see what former fisherman and Coast Guard chef Kjartan Halldórsson is up to. Choose your order from the case up front — don’t forget the lobster soup — and pay at the cashier. Sit on the little wooden stools and your meal will be brought to you. There’s nothing like it. And if you can plan ahead, don’t miss an experience at Idnó, right next to the City Pond (www.idno.is/english.html).  It’s one of Reykjavik’s most historic buildings and now hosts both a restaurant and theatre. It’s the perfect place for a very special evening.

You’ll probably hear more from me in the future about this beautiful and inspiring place. But for now, please accept my warmest wishes for a light-filled Happy Hannukah and a very Merry Christmas!

Buon viaggio!

Iceland, though it lies so far to the north that it is partly within the Arctic Circle, is, like Norway, Scotland, and Ireland, affected by the Gulf Stream, so that considerable portions of it are quite habitable. — British explorer Harry Johnston

A rainbow on the lava fields

The young woman behind the reservation desk at our hotel was born in Nebraska. After graduating from college, she spent a year in Iceland, then went to Denmark for another year and returned to Iceland, where she has lived for the past 18 months with her Icelandic husband. She’s learning the language, little by little, and I’m impressed, because it looks impossible.

There's nothing like the Blue Lagoon in the morning!

Why Iceland, I asked? Because, she said, she admired the incredible spirit of independence in the people and she loved their tradition of storytelling. Icelanders are famous for their sagas, epic tales in both prose and poetry that recount stories of early Viking voyages and battles and the ensuing feuds between Icelandic families. One of the most famous sagas is over 100,000 words long. (For those who care about these things, that’s about the length of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.)

I went to Iceland with Tim and his mother because it was on her 80^th birthday “bucket list” and she didn’t want to go alone. We were joined by my sister-in-law and two of Mom’s good friends from Brandermill Woods. We went on a “Northern Lights and Lava Fields” tour, run by MWT Associates out of San Jose, CA and even though the lights didn’t cooperate the week we were there, it was still a fantastic trip and one that I heartily recommend.

For one thing, you can book a flight that takes you into Iceland’s Keflavik Airport, spend up to seven nights in the

Small Icelandic horses under a big, moody Icelandic sky

capital city of Reykjavik and then go on to one of several European destinations with no penalty charges. Check out the stopover booking engine on Icelandair’s website for more details. But beyond that, Iceland is a revelation.

I’ll have lots more to tell when I get back. I’m off to Boston this week for the funeral of a dear friend. It will be tough; hold me in your thoughts, please.

Meanwhile, here are a few photos to whet your appetite for the full story. These are remarkable people living in a remarkable environment. Plan to go.

Buon viaggio!

Only after a disaster can we be resurrected. — Chuck Palahniuk

There are some places that you have to see, no matter how  painful or emotional they might be.

As a native New Yorker who was living near Boston when  the terrorists attacked on 9/11, I knew I had to get down  there as soon as it was practical. I had to see it for myself. I  had to stand at Ground Zero and take it all in. It was  sacred space and I needed to be there.

Tim and I went to New York for the six-month  anniversary, although we hadn’t realized at the time that  we had chosen that exact date to visit. We were even  interviewed that day by a TV news team, ironically, from Boston. Walking around lower Manhattan, we witnessed some of the ceremonies that were being conducted for the anniversary, but more than that, we saw what the people had done. The missing posters, still hanging on fences and in storefronts, the ribbons, the phone numbers offering assistance, the closed gates of Trinity Church, sadness and disbelief and emptiness everywhere. Would it ever be the same?

Well, New Yorkers being who they (we) are, the city has certainly been resurrected. Better than ever, maybe for a time, maybe forever. And while the politicians can haggle all they want about this monument or that project — despite the fact that there is still today, ten years after the event, no building yet erected — the city has gone on. So I wanted to see what was happening in L’Aquila (“the eagle”) after its own disaster. Had it gone on?

Bridge Out

On April 6, 2009, the city of L’Aquila, the capital of the Italian region of Abruzzo in central Italy, was devastated by an earthquake measuring 6.3 on the Richter scale. With the city at its epicenter, the earthquake riddled much of the surrounding area, ultimately claiming 308 lives, injuring more than 1,500 people and rendering more than 65,000 people homeless. The statistics are staggering, the damage even more so. The main earthquake (there were several significant aftershocks) was felt in Rome, nearly 60 miles away.

Now, earthquakes are nothing new to L’Aquila. The one in 1703, which targeted most of central Italy, took more than 5,000 lives. But this quake of 2009 was the deadliest in all of Italy since the 1980 Irpinia earthquake, which killed nearly 3,000 people in the south, near Avellino. Let me tell you a little about the medieval city of L’Aquila.

Street scene

It sits majestically among the Apeninnes and the snow-capped mountains of the Gran Sasso range. The city comprises a virtual maze of narrow streets, lined with Baroque and Renaissance buildings and churches opening onto elegant piazzas. Home to the University of L’Aquila, it is a dynamic college town and has many cultural institutions, among them a theater, a symphony orchestra, a fine arts academy, a state conservatory and a film institute. There are even several ski resorts near the city. A good place to be. At least it used to be.

We drove to L’Aquila from Sulmona, a little farther south in Abruzzo, and were headed ultimately up to Civitella del Tronto, on the northern border of the region. We had to take a bit of a detour to visit L’Aquila, but the rest of our group agreed that it was something we shouldn’t miss. The closer we got to the city, the stranger things became. Whole city blocks of buildings were supported by two by fours . . . over the windows, buttressing the balconies, forbidding entry entirely. Some had metal scaffolding all around them. And the people were gone. It was nearly lunchtime, and there were virtually no people on the streets. Something was very wrong.

1,000 keys to reopen the city . . .

We drove to the end of what looked on the map to be a fairly central artery in the city and were eventually stopped by a wall of orange plastic. We could go no farther; the bridge to the city was out. Rocks and debris were everywhere. It looked like this had happened last week. A few of us got out to walk onto the bridge entrance and agreed that it was something out of one of those cheesy “end of the world” movies that have always been so popular. I wonder why we have to imagine these stories when the real thing is there for the taking?

Back in the cars, look at the map, find another way in. We discovered a way by the  Fontana Luminosa (“Luminous Fountain”), a sculpture of two women bearing large jars, built in the 1930s. Nearby several food trucks were selling lunch to the workers, and across the way stood the impressive Spanish fort (Forte Spagnolo) built in 1534 by the Viceroy Don Pedro de Toledo.

Forte Spagnolo

We parked the cars and walked in, not sure what we might find. It took our breath away. The original plan was to have lunch in L’Aquila, but we soon discovered how difficult that might be. We walked through street after street of closed buildings, once so beautiful, now barred by intricate webs of heavy iron rods. Overhead, makeshift barriers prevented further spillage from falling onto the streets and, one assumes, onto pedestrians. Not that there were many of us there. The most prominent presence was the military police — standing nearby their Hummers, decked out in their camouflage, armed to the teeth to discourage looting and maintain order on the streets. To be honest, it felt like a war zone.

Fontana Luminosa

There were two hopeful signs indicating restaurants that were still open. We followed them down a side street only to find one closed and another that looked quite lovely, but only seemed to serve fish, which most of us didn’t want. So we went on, hoping for the best. We soon came to a broad spot in the road, near one of the former government buildings. A banner signaled that this had possibly been the site of a memorial service for the victims of the “terremoto” (earthquake) and, across the street, was a chilling memorial just like one I had seen in lower Manhattan those years ago: a wall of house keys, belonging to either homes or residents which no longer existed. A large paper key had a note on it that read: “1000 keys to reopen the city.” The keys are still there, and the city is mostly closed, most of the former residents having moved out of their government-issued blue tents and into the countryside (or even farther away) by now.

Today, L’Aquila is a city of a great historical past and an uncertain future. The people on its streets are largely workers, soldiers and a few die-hard shopkeepers who come to work each day to try to keep body and soul together. We found lunch in a slick, modern cafeteria-style place called Nero Caffe that was so totally out of place in this environment that we had to pinch ourselves to see if we were really there. But the food was good and the cost was reasonable and we felt that in some way maybe we had made a contribution to the city that day.

For your protection

As soon as the tragedy happened, the National Italian American Foundation created a place to donate; to date, they have collected many hundreds of thousands of dollars to the Abruzzo Relief Fund. On their website it says, “Individuals, corporations and foundations who wish to donate to the NIAF/Abruzzo Relief Fund can do so by visiting www.niaf.org/relief. Additionally, donations can be made by check payable to the NIAF/Abruzzo Relief Fund, The National Italian American Foundation, 1860 19th Street NW, Washington, DC 20009.” I’ve given, and I hope some of you will, too. The churches and cathedrals need to be rebuilt; the forte needs help (it houses the Museum of Abruzzo and its third floor completely collapsed); even some of the “earthquake-proof” modern structures — hospitals and university buildings — had to be closed. The people need to come home.

I’ll leave you with an entry from a Wikipedia post that sums up the energy that the government put towards L’Aquila in the weeks and months after the earthquake. Not much has been done since:

“Because of the 2009 earthquake, the Berlusconi government decided to move that year’s G8 summit from its scheduled Sardinian host of La Maddalena to L’Aquila, so that disaster funds would be distributed to the affected region and to show solidarity with the city’s inhabitants. World leaders converged on L’Aquila on July 8 and many of them were given tours of the devastated city by the host Prime Minister. A Washington Post newspaper article on April 11, 2010 reported that in February 2010, residents of L’Aquila, frustrated that cleanup efforts of the destroyed downtown had not begun after ten months of waiting, had organized daily volunteer crews to haul away rubble themselves. Many of these displaced residents have been re-housed in new housing on the fringe of town, and missed the vibrant life, shops and cafes downtown that were damaged and shuttered (reportedly some 2,000 businesses have closed).”

Can it be resurrected?

Like the author Nan McElroy writes in her wonderful little guidebook: “Remember that Italy is a country, not a theme park.” Sometimes the authentic Italy is not so pretty. It can move you to tears and reach out for help. Will you?

Buon viaggio!

In fair Verona, where we lay our scene . . . Prologue, Romeo and Juliet

Verona's Duomo

It was our last day in Verona. Sadness all around. What to do?

We were meeting our friends from Milano for lunch and Tim and I agreed to go over to the train station, Porta Nuova, to meet them around noon. But first we decided (he decided) to take me on a seemingly 100-mile walk around town that would include all the historic churches of Verona, the Teatro Romano and surrounding structures, a jaunt across the Ponte della Pietra and back again, over to the station and finally, a return to Piazza delle Erbe and lunch. By the end of it my feet were killing me, but it was fantastic and I only squealed once, en route to the Chiesa di San Zeno Maggiore, which, honestly, I insisted on seeing.

We first stopped at the 12^th Century Romanesque Duomo Santa Maria Marticolare, and after a while, headed off across the Ponte della Pietra, the old stone bridge that spans the Adige River. This led to the other side of the city and over to the Teatro Romano.

Then the usual happened. Tim met a fellow (a young Spaniard, this time) who was also a

Teatro Romano, Verona

talker and they wiled away an hour or two at the Teatro Romano while I snapped pictures and basked in the warm Italian sun. Soon it was getting close to noon and we had still to see San Zeno before hoofing it over to the station. They were both generally in the same direction, but we soon learned how far away an inch on a tourist map can really be!

Inside San Zeno

San Zeno was magnificent. Named to honor Verona’s Patron saint — and housing the body of San Zeno, who died in the 4^th Century — it is, like so many other long-standing churches, an amalgam of many styles and periods. It’s got a rose window, a cloister, a bell tower, a presbytery — the place is huge. We will have to go back, because we were running out of time and we couldn’t be too late to Porta Nuova to meet our friends. We actually sprinted in, like marathoners, about 5 minutes before the train from Milano arrived. I, of course, thought we’d take a taxi back to Piazza delle Erbe, but it turns out we were only a short distance away because we really had walked entirely around the city!

After a tasty lunch and lively conversation in the garden of Ristorante S. Eufemia just off the main shopping district between Piazza della Erbe and Piazza Brá, we found some good gelato and all stood around to take in the Saturday afternoon people watching. Before long, our friends headed back to the train and Milano and we headed off to get ready for the opera. The opera? How did this come about?! Well, rewind to yesterday’s lunch at another friend’s palazzo.

One of the really marvelous things about travel is that you can make friends for life. In 2003, eight of us rented a villa in a little Lombardian village called Sermide that is owned by the Castellani family of Sermide and Verona. We have since been back to Villa Castellani and also to Palazzo Castellani, the family’s home in Verona, and are honored to consider them  friends of ours. In this day and age, so far removed from the patronage system that allowed the arts to flourish during the Renaissance, Ing. Luciano Castellani is about as close to my personal patron as one can get, and I am most grateful.

Knowing that we were going to end our 2011 Italy tour in Verona, Luciano and his family kindly invited Tim and me and our traveling companions to

Ponte delle Pietra over the Adige

Palazzo Castellani for lunch before we left for home. We arrived at 1:00 for a lovely garden reception, which included many of his family members and several friends whom we had met two years before, when he organized a reading for me at the palazzo (and also at the villa) to introduce my book to Italy. It was fantastic to sip prosecco and sample excellent cheeses and little sandwiches in such an exquisite setting. Soon we were ushered into the grand ballroom for a simple but elegant lunch of asparagus risotto, several local wines and two configurations of gelato. It was something out of a dream.

As we were saying our good-byes, Luciano introduced me to his son-in-law, who asked if I and my guests (6 of us in total) would be interested in attending a performance of the opera the following evening. Now, normally, the night before a departure is filled with packing and sadness and anxiety, but how could we refuse? What an elegant replacement for all those crazy emotions! We said yes, absolutely!

The glorious hall at Palazzo Camozzini

Shortly before 9:00 p.m., we found ourselves at the entrance to Palazzo Camozzini, which bills itself as “A historic palace for private events in Verona.” That doesn’t begin to describe it. The main hall, where the performance would take place, was covered in monochrome Neoclassic frescoes and sported a chandelier the likes of which I have not seen since The Phantom of the Opera. The room was set up for maybe 20 or 30 people, tops. There was a grand piano off to the side and a few tables of fresh flowers. Nothing more. I felt like a very special 18^th Century dinner guest who was retiring to the drawing room after dessert for a private performance. And that, my friends, is exactly what it was. (That said, I apologize in advance for the quality of the photos in the villa — since the setting was so intimate, I did not want to haul out my large camera, so they were taken surreptitiously with my iPhone.)

Villa in Canto is the brainchild of Maestro Riccardo Serenelli, a wildly experienced and absolutely charming orchestra director and vocal coach who has performed throughout Italy. The program offers five performances each week, from April through August, of highlights from some of the best lyric operas. This season showcases Donizetti’s The Elixir of Love, Puccini’s La Boheme, Madame Butterfly and Tosca, Verdi’s La Traviata, and Rossini’s The Barber of Seville. We were privileged to hear excerpts from and explanations (in English, thanks to M˚ Serenelli) of  The Elixir of Love. The voices were spectacular — Giorgia Paci as Adina, Carlo Giachetta as Nemorino (it doesn’t hurt that he looks like Antonio Banderas), Ferruccio Finetti as Neomorino and Michele Filanti as the always over-the-top Dulcamara, the seller of bogus elixirs. Supplemental characters were coaxed up from the audience, and we felt very much part of the scenes; the performers pulled us in on all the jokes and, when the main arias came, they were weep-worthy. What voices! Check out this short video of Elixir performances – the soprano and bass are different from the ones we saw, but you definitely get a sense of the ambience and virtuoso experience.

The chandelier -- think 12 feet tall!

At intermission, prosecco was served (I love Italy!) and the Maestro talked with all of the guests. And at the end of the performance, the actors formed a receiving line of sorts, and greeted everyone who had come. It was a spectacular evening. Just being in the room would have been enough. Just hearing the piano would have been enough! Just hearing the voices would have been enough. As my Jewish friends would say, Dayenu! But we had it all. What a way to leave Italy. A night at the opera.

As we walked home under the stars, we were transfixed. Tim — who, after a very mediocre performance of Butterfly a

Curtain call

few months prior, allowed as how he didn’t care if he ever saw another opera again — was eager to give it another try. He hummed one of the principal arias all the way home. We turned from the quiet via San Salvatore Vecchio and onto Piazza delle Erbe with the passeggiatta in full swing at 11:00 p.m., and were plunged into yet another aspect of the magic of Italy. Parting is, indeed, such sweet sorrow.

Buon viaggio!

Sulmo mihi patria est. — Ovid

We began our 2011 Italian adventure by creeping out of Rome’s Fiumicino airport and into a major traffic jam — the usual — but only after having our perfunctory rental car adventure. I guess Italian tourists travel with bags the size of fanny packs, because our mid-sized car that we made clear was to hold four passengers for two weeks virtually collapsed after the first bag was launched into the trunk. After a fair amount of wrangling, we were upgraded to a larger car that still barely held the bags, but hold them it did, and we were off, into the aforementioned traffic jam. About 90 minutes and 10 km later, we discovered that there had been a very minor fender bender, which was handled in a typically Italian way: gobs of officials standing around, a cute little portable sign blocking one lane out of the airport, an ambulance (unused, as far as we could tell) and hundreds of infuriated Italians and frustrated tourists rubbernecking around the scene in their cars. Let the good times begin!

We took the autostrada east into the region of Abruzzo,  about a two-hour drive, and  headed for the historic city of  Sulmona, which was to be our home for four nights.  Sulmona is a dynamic town of some 25,000 residents  located in the center of Abruzzo  among the highest peaks of  the Appenines. The views from Piazza Garibaldi, the main  square and home of July’s famed Palio, are breathtaking.  Mists and snow were  frequent on the mountaintops, and  when the sun came out, it was spectacular. Close  to several  ski areas — Roccaraso being the one everybody raves about  — and not too far from the beaches of Pescara along the  Adriatic, Sulmona offers visitors a great jumping off point for drives and recreation of all kinds. Problem, is there aren’t too many visitors. At least not Americans. German and Dutch visitors have found the place, for sure, but we need to bring up the averages, people — this place is great!

Sulmona was home to the poet Ovid, whose presence is felt everywhere in the city, from his statue in Piazza XX Settembre to his famed saying, “Sulmo mihi patria est” (Sulmona is my fatherland) written out or abbreviated SMPE all over town. Sulmona was also a very important artisan and commercial town back in the day and it’s hard to walk a block without seeing a statue or monument of some grace and import. But the tough economy has hit here, too. We were told about a 60% unemployment rate among the city’s youth, for starters. And on our walk around town, we were shown a significant patch of land, maybe 40 feet by 15 feet, under which lay some apparently well-preserved Roman or Byzantine mosaics. The city has carefully covered them up and grassed them over for safekeeping and will restore and reveal them when it has the money to do so properly.

Our B&B was just off P. Garibaldi, right at the end of a 13^th century aqueduct. In fact, one of the arches of the aqueduct actually ran through our bedroom! Sei Stelle offers comfortable accommodations right in the heart of the city. It was a fine jumping off point for our walking tour of the city and frequent trips to shops, restaurants and the local mercato. Run by the Frattaroli family (originally from Sulmona and who now split their time between Sulmona and Boston, where they run the Filippo Ristorante in Boston’s North End), Sei Stelle is an affordable option offering a fine continental breakfast every morning and the option for you to negotiate with the caretaker, cousin Franca, to cook for you (and it’s fantastic). But do be aware that little or no English is spoken here and that with my little or no Italian, we did run into a few glitches. Nothing that couldn’t be solved, but it could have gotten sticky.

So now that we’re here in the middle of the Appenines, in this lovely old city, what do  we do? Well, first we get a tour. Francesco met us at 9:30 after a first good night’s  sleep, and toured us around until lunchtime. We started at the Cathedral of San  Panfilo (Sulmona’s patron saint) which is ancient, and which was heavily damaged  in an earthquake in 1706. Centuries of rebuilding have lead to an interesting mix of  styles, largely Romanesque but with plenty of frescos and wooden, marble and stone  artifacts to keep you guessing. The newest part even has a fresco of Pope Benedict XVI  in bright colors over the doorway! Of particular interest was the display of artifacts and information about the short-lived Pope Clemente II, who served for only one year and who was, perhaps, a bit too reform-minded for the church at that time. Very near our B&B was the Fountain of the Old Man (La Fontana del Vecchio) and of course, the Acquedotto Medievale (Medieval Aqueduct), built in 1256 under the Swabian ruler Manfredi.

But perhaps more than anything, Sulmona is known as the home of confetti. What’s confetti? Ever been to anItalian wedding? Ever gotten a favor of coated white almonds in a little net bag? That’s the American tradition. In Italy, you can get almonds in different colors for all kinds of events, presented in everything from satin bags to Ginori china. White is for weddings and communions; green is for engagement; silver is for 25^th anniversaries; red is for graduation and birthdays . . . and so on. At the Pelino headquarters — one of the oldest confetti manufacturers — we saw the Pelino family members carefully taking orders, arranging boxes of colorful creations or managing the small shop. There is also a museum over the factory that displays all manner of machinery, documents and copperware that have to do with the celebrated tradition. And there are confetti stores all around town selling everything from bagged almonds to stunning almond flowers to unusual almond rosaries.

We had 12 people on this leg of our journey, one of them whose family hailed from Abruzzo. Vicky’s Mom was from a town called Castel di Sangro, not far from Sulmona; her father was from Pescara on the coast. At a pre-trip dinner, Mario Scalzi (president of Parker Villas) told Vicky that she could count on the Abruzzese to pick her out. He was right: the first day in Sulmona, a woman came up and asked Vicky where her family was from! One rainy day, a group went to help Vicky find her ancestral home. No one in the family had been able to get there successfully, since infrastructure was slow coming to many parts of Abruzzo. In fact, the highways didn’t go into some places until the 1970s. Anyway, this time, Castel di Sangro was reached and, as Vicky was talking on the phone to her mother in Cleveland to tell her the news, the church bells rang. Magic.

The Abruzzese people were very friendly to us. Lots of smiles and nods,  and some were curious enough to ask us where we were from. All in all,  it was a delightful place to be. And one day, when we decided to visit the  Celestine Abbey in Badia (Santo Spirito al Marrone) to learn about the  hermitage tradition, we met a woman who not only gave us a guided tour  of the place, but also met up with us later that evening in Sulmona.  Novelia is an Abruzzese charmer who lived for several years in Canada  and then came back to Sulmona. She and her sister Vittoria are a high-  spirited couple of Italians who love where they live and want to show  others why they should love it, too. Next time, we’ll consider staying at  her place in town, La Casa del Cuore. Drinks at the Hotel Santa Croce  Ovidius were a hoot.

We passed our four days here in a flurry of wine tours (Valle Reale,  whose Montepulciano d’Abruzzo and Trebbiano wines were first-rate),  good food and visits to a few neighboring towns like Scanno and L’Acquila. For lunch one day, we drove up to an agriturismo at what seemed like the top of the world to a real find called BioAgriturismo Valle Scannese. We were fed and feted well and they told us tales of snow falling on the piazza in town just the day before. On the way there, we saw shepherds with their flocks of sheep and big white working dogs. We even saw a small cluster of wild boar (cinghiale). This is rugged country, folks, and the real thing.

Tim fell in love with the mountains and the herbal amaro, a local digestivo, and I fell in love with the local rossa (rosé) wine called Cerasuolo. On market day, Tim and I bought a delicious round Romano cheese from a white-haired lady sitting all alone at a small glass display case that she probably hauls around from town to town. We felt a little sorry for her and bought from her instead of from the larger trailer stalls. Then, on the way home, we re-watched The American and saw that George Clooney did the same thing . . . some of the final scenes were shot right there on the piazza. If you’ve seen the movie, you might remember the Easter procession scene — Sulmona is famous for its five-day over-the-top Holy Week celebrations. I can’t wait to come back some day to see it!

Sulmona is a beautiful city with a long history, great traditions and terrific food and wines. I miss it already — especially the church bells ringing all night long, every 15 minutes, reminding me how much sleep I’m missing. But really, I do — there was something comforting about it. There was so much more that we could have done — go to the coast, for instance — but there wasn’t enough time. Just when we were getting used to the pace we had to pack up and go on to the next destination. And that is a story for another day. But put Abruzzo on your list, by all means. It’s a different kind of Italy and you’ve got to see it.

Buon viaggio!

“Like a cross between The DaVinci Code and Life of Brian . . .” — The New York Times

Strange as it seems to my friends in the local Italian club, I am a Protestant. My parents met when my father crashed a Presbyterian church dance. He, a pure-blooded Italian of 14, met my mother, a half-English, half-German girl of 12, and they never looked back. His parents were less than thrilled at first, but they loved my mother and so that was that. I was raised first in the Presbyterian tradition and then later, as a teenager, in the Methodist tradition, safely away from the Catholic world of relics and reliquaries. No spleen of St. Whozit for me.

My early trips to Italy, where one inevitably visits many, many chiesi each day before noon, were a bit uncomfortable. I’d stand in some magnificent duomo, marveling at the marble and the frescoes and the paintings and the starry vaulted ceilings and then, wham — it would hit me — I’m staring at a glass case with a waxen saint lying in state. Or at an ornate box that is proudly displaying the liver or wristbone of some poor martyred true believer. I would flip through the guidebook or my dictionary to make sure that what I thought the object was was really what it was. Inevitably, it was. Body parts. And bodies. O mio Dio!

What is in here??? Do I want to know?

On a recent trip to New York City, I stopped into St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Madison Avenue. It was a quick walk-through, to be sure, since we had to make a theatre curtain, but as I walked around the periphery, I noticed a wrought-iron-enclosed glass case with the note: RELIC OF ST. THERESE on it. I never found out what they had in there, and I don’t care; I practically ran out.

So I was a little intrigued (and nervous, if I’m honest) about diving into David Farley’s book, An Irreverent Curiosity, in which he recounts a tale of living in a small, odd town outside of Rome for a year while undertaking a most unusual quest: to find the whereabouts of a most unusual relic — the foreskin of Jesus Christ — which had mysteriously disappeared from the local church in 1983. Or was it 1986? Did the Vatican steal it? Or is it all a hoax? There’s a lot to this mystery.

For those of you not familiar with David Farley, he is a journalist who teaches writing at New York University. He lives in the city with his wife, the writer Jessie Sholl, and their dog, Abraham Lincoln. His writing has appeared in The New York Times, The Washington Post, Condé Nast Traveler and Slate, among others. But this journey to Italy has made him something more than a mere journalist and travel writer in my book — it has launched him into the realm of picaresque hero. A modern-day Don Quixote, fighting the forces of secrecy, ennui, the Vatican, the local priests, history, myth, the wack-o residents of the town and a few other forces I’m sure I’m missing. And it’s a great ride.

I’m not going to tell you what happens, but I will give you enough to hopefully whet your appetite for this laugh-

Read this book!

out-loud tale of intrigue and lunacy.

First, there’s the very concept of the foreskin’s salvation (so to speak) and survival for over 2,000 years. Shall we even go there? Good, let’s not. Then, if we buy into the first concept,  there’s the historical spin on the story — which includes angels and Charlemagne and Constantine and countless popes and priests and Crusaders and on and on, winding up in a church in this strange little town outside of Rome.

Then there’s the story of why churches (nay, entire villages) wanted relics on site. It’s simple, really. Relics granted wishes, caused miracles, were givers of good fortune and restored health. Maybe most important, they caused believers to make pilgrimages to see them, thereby adding much-needed revenues to the village inns, hostelries and churches.

Trying to explain his unconventional quest to a guard/ticket salesman outside of the Sancta Sanctorum in the Vatican, David says, “It was the Sack of Rome in 1527 and a soldier stole the relic from here and also the jewel box in which it was contained . . . And then . . . the solider arrived in a village that’s called Calcata. It’s forty-five kilometers from Rome. And he was put into a jail. Thirty years later, they found the relic and put it in the church . . .”

And so you need to know about the village that this church is in. Today, Calcata is a haven for artists and architects and bohemians and other sorts of frichettoni — what the Italians call “freaks.” Tie dye abounds. A woman (“la strega”) lives in a cave with crows. Another walks through town with her black cat on a leash. But it wasn’t always so. The “old” Calcata was moved up the hill in 1969 to form Calcata Nuova (David tells the Byzantine story about how an earthquake in Sicily in 1935 caused this migration), and the residents followed. The frichettoni arrived that same year in lower Calcata (the “old” city) to drop out of mainstream life in Rome, no doubt (it was 1969, after all), and they are still there. And they both help and hinder David in his quest, and therein lies the crux of this surreal tale.

I highly recommend An Irreverent Curiosity. Pick it up if you have a hankering to know more about church history, miracles or the whole idea of reliquaries. Pick it up if you’re a history buff. Pick it up if you’ve ever had the notion to pack up and live in an Italian town for an extended period of time. Pick it up if you enjoy a good conspiracy tale—and a good laugh. Pick it up, by all means, if you’re just a little irreverent yourself.

Thanks, David, for your unique blend of well-researched history, wit and wisdom. Most of all, thanks for taking up the mantle (I couldn’t resist) of the search for, as you call it, “The Father of All Foreskins.”

Buon viaggio!

Where the heck is Bevagna? — Tim Jenkins, responding to my text that we had arrived

Millstone in the light, Bevagna

Four of us were being driven from Rome’s Fiumico airport towards what would be our home away from home for a week in Cannara, just outside of Assisi, in Umbria. We were tired, and it was only 9:30 in the morning, and we were trying to be civil to each other, despite the long flight over and the fact that none of us had gotten very much sleep. Our sweet driver, Aldo, had piled our luggage into the back of his SUV-taxi and was carefully negotiating us around all the twists and turns required to get us out of the airport and onto the highway.

After a while, I smiled when I saw the sign on the A1 for Abruzzo. It made me realize that I would be coming back again in a scant six months, taking that very turn off the road to head to yet another adventure. Never had I had back-to-back trips to Italy like this. Life was good.

But we passed it by in favor of the signs to Assisi. It would be a two-hour drive to the agriturismo, La Fattoria del Gelso, so we settled in to admire the scenery and get to know each other a little. Two of the gals were friends, having met on a prior trip. One flew in from southern California and the other, from Memphis. The third lived in New York City, and then there was me, a native New Yorker now living in Virginia. We were all about the same age (anything over 50 strikes me as being in the same demographic group these days) and seemed very compatible. The week would bear that out; we became fast friends.

Aldo pulled off the secondary road we’d been driving on for a while and made the turn towards Cannara. Winding around what had recently been fields of sunflowers, the famous Cannara onions and other agricultural products, we saw one of those amazing Italian sites: a cemetery, protected by poplar trees and fronted by a huge stone structure with a formidable gate. We would go later in the week, and be awe-struck by the elaborate crypts and mausoleums and the loving care shown by the survivors of these tight-knit families.

Aldo made a quick left turn just past the cemetery and drove us down a stand of cypress trees for about 1/4 mile to our villa. It was beautiful. A stone farmhouse originally built in the 1700s and recently refurbished to be an 8-bedroom, 8-bath sight for sore, tired eyes. The owners, Bill and Suzy Menard — Americans from Maryland (more on them in a later post) — were mighty lucky to have found this place, with its good farmland, welcome swimming pool and close proximity to the best Umbria has to offer. The problem was, it was too early to get into our rooms.

We were about to head off to the village of Cannara on foot, when Marco, a prince of a guy who helps run the place when Bill and Suzy aren’t there, suggested instead that Aldo take us into the nearby town of Bevagna. He said that Cannara would be pretty much closed down at this time of day and that it didn’t offer too many options for lunch — which we were in desperate need of. So we piled our suitcases in the living room and climbed back into the taxi for our adventure in Bevagna.

A very, very old fountain

The historic little town of Bevagna sits in the province of Perugia in the central part of Umbria. Both it and Cannara are on the flood plain of the Topino River (remember Topo Gigio, kids? Topino means little mouse). Bevagna, population approximately 3,000, was originally an Etruscan settlement and then a Roman outpost called Mevania, and the Roman walls and mosaics were evident all around town. We entered through the Porto Foligno, the town’s main entrance, which leads to the central square, Piazza Silvestri. There are three churches in Bevagna, including the 13^th century church of San Francesco (he’s pretty big around here) which includes a stone (on the wall, protected by a grate) that is said to be the one St. Francis stood upon when he preached to the birds.

Bevagna, it turns out, is in the middle of white truffle territory and is also an enthusiastic purveyor of the region’s tasty Montefalco Rosso wines. As it was getting on towards lunch time, we walked around town to find a suitable spot. We found one, not yet open, that looked incredible and, as we later learned, is one of the premier foodie destinations in the region. Redibis (which means “I shall return” in Latin) is part of the boutique hotel L’Orto Degli Angeli and many of the dishes offered at Redibis are taken from the 100-year-old recipes of the current owner’s great grandmother, Caterina. How often do you get to enjoy fine dining in a building that is 20 centuries old? How often do you get to experience classical Umbrian recipes interpreted by a young, hip, accomplished chef? How many times do you get to stay in an historic hotel in an historic town — and even attend cooking classes? Stop thinking and, if you’re anywhere near Bevagna on your next trip to Umbria, go. I know I will.

Me and Simone

With Redibis closed, we went off to find Aldo’s suggestion — La Delizie del Borgo, a small, friendly looking place right on Piazza Garibaldi. We arrived around 11:45 and were told we were “un troppo presto” – a little too early — but were advised to make a reservation and to come back in 45 minutes, which we did. We took time to walk around the town, going into churches and climbing up and down the very up-and-down streets, taking pictures. When we returned at 12:30, they were ready for us. The owner, Simone, escorted us to a table and before long, he learned that we were staying at Bill and Suzy’s place, which made all the difference. Suddenly we were no longer a bunch of silly americani who ate way too early — we were friends. He told us that he’d be coming to both New York and Washington, D.C. in a few weeks for some cooking adventures with the Menards; we exchanged cards and told him to give us a call when he arrived.

Turns out we ordered Simone’s favorite red wine, a Montefalco Rosso 2007, and he offered to bring out some of

Le Delizie del Borgo

the local specialties for us rather than have us order from the menu. We soon learned that Umbria is not only the “green heart” of Italy, but it is also Italy’s breadbasket. We ate the local Torta di Testa and all kinds of other white and whole grain breads slathered with chicken liver pate, olive tapenades, olive oil and garlic. There were plates of cheese and salami and even shaved white truffles. At one point, Simone brought to our table a small baking dish covered with a damp white napkin. When he pulled back the napkin, he revealed a bounty of fresh white truffles, worth I can’t imagine how much. He made us smell the cloth and the truffles, each one of us, because they are as precious as gold. Never has mustiness smelled so rich! For dessert, he offered us cantucci (mini biscotti cookies), which we dipped into small glasses of the local Sagrantino Passito di Montefalco, a sweet wine rather like Vin Santo. And before we left, Simone gave us a bag of rich nut and fruit cookies that we shared with the rest of the group on our last night.

It was quite a first day. What began as a jet-lagged slog to an unknown village ended, like so many Italian adventures do, with new friends, a new outlook and a full tummy. By now we were all excited to meet the rest of the group, so when Aldo returned promptly when he said he would, we climbed back into the van and drove back to Cannara, already armed with a fresh new story to tell.

Buon viaggio!

One of the essential skills for a traveler is the ability to make a rather extravagant fool of oneself. — John Flinn

What’s the first thing you do when you wake up in Italy on the first day of your vacation? The choices are clear: from where we are, we can go to any of the great Shakespearean cities — Padova, Verona, Mantova — or we can take a longer trip to romantic Venice or even drive up to the lakes. Yes, the choices are many, and the consensus comes quickly: Screw culture, art and architecture! We want to see the Ferraris! And so we sped off, that first day, eight of us in two cars, driving the hour or so west, towards Maranello.

The new red shoes

First stop? The Ferrari Store, of course. Not exactly where you buy the car itself, but just about everything else that could possibly carry that “prancing horse” logo. There were shirts and jackets and children’s clothes; journals and watches and beverage holders of all kinds; there were fancy shoes and skis and even model cars. As I was choosing from among a half dozen spiral bound notebooks, I looked up to see my husband in the shoe department. Now, Tim is not a souvenir buyer and he always looks for a bargain. So what the heck was he doing asking for help in the Ferrari Store shoe department? (Definitely not the place to find a bargain!) I quickly picked out a journal and went over to see what he was doing. And then I saw them: a gorgeous pair of Ferrari-red leather sneakers. On his feet. Made by Puma, these were real beauties. And I knew he had to have them. The one thing I’ve learned about Tim after all these years is that, aside from pottery and the occasional 200-year-old chair, the one thing he really has no resistance against is good-looking shoes. So the very first souvenir of our trip was bought by the person least likely to buy a souvenir. We were off to a good start.

After about an hour, we all decided we’d bought everything that we were going to

A bevy of Ferraris

buy, and went off in search of The Ferrari Gallery. Now, this place surprised even me. All that red. All those shiny sports cars — antique ones, late model ones, displayed both on the ground and running up walls. You could touch them, look into them, read all about them. I thought we’d spend half an hour there and move on. I was wrong. Even the most girlie-girl among us was enthralled. And there was much to be enthralled by: along with the dozens of classic red Ferraris were silver Maseratis and one special baby blue Alfa Romeo that was to die for. We looked a little, then had lunch in La Caffetteria and then went back and looked some more.

The beautiful Alfa Romeo

About 20 minutes south of Mantova (Mantua), Maranello has a lot to offer. The main destination is, of course, The Ferrari Gallery, which lays out the legend of the Prancing Horse Team. It’s open every day from 9:30 – 6:00 p.m. and tickets are required. In the Piazza Libertà near town hall you’ll find the monument to Enzo Ferrari which was put there in 1998 by his son, Pietro, on the occasion of the 100^th anniversary of his father’s birth. And speaking of monuments, there’s also a “Prancing Horse” statue near the Via Grizzaga roundabout, which has stood there since 2003 in celebration of Ferrari’s victory in the Formula 1 (F1) World Championship that year. Other attractions include the Galleria del Vento (Wind Tunnel) designed by Renzo Piano to simulate the real-life experience of the F1 cars (no visitors allowed); the well-used Enzo Ferrari Auditorium which, during race week, opens to all the fans who want to attend the free showing of the F1 race; the Villa Rangoni Machiavelli Park and the Madonna del Corso Cultural Centre. And while Maranello is most noted for being the “City of Ferrari,” it is also famous for its excellent Emilian cuisine. A worthy day trip, by anyone’s calculations.

Did we make fools of ourselves in Maranello? Probably. But we had a ball. Best of

Making a fool of myself, happily

all, while we thought we were doing something especially for the “guys,” it turns out we were all equally won over by the sleek, winning machines and the story of Enzo Ferrari and the legacy he created.

Buon viaggio!

Salem, Massachusetts: Tough on crime for 300 years. — Our friend, Rev. Steve Silver

Ellen's handiwork

It happens early every October in Salem. First, Ellen Talkowsky and her able crew tie dozens of dried corn stalks to all the light posts downtown. Orange ribbons, of course. Then the banners go up along Essex Street and the pedestrian mall. Then there’s a certain anticipation in the air, both good and bad. Here they come . . . the haunted houses that stay up for a month, the fried dough and sausage stands, the tarot readers and other assorted psychics, and the tourists. Tens of thousands of them every weekend, culminating in 100,000+ on Halloween night itself. Salem is still trying to get used to this.

Salem’s Haunted Happenings began as the brainchild of one Bob Cahill, a Salem resident and state representative in the mid-1970s. He (with the help of a few neighborhood kids) started by scaring the bejeesus out of people at a new attraction in town, the Witch Dungeon Museum. Around 1982, Cahill finally got to meet with the Salem Chamber of Commerce and “Haunted Happenings” was institutionalized. It has grown every year and is now one of the most important “events” in town.

As a ten-year resident of Salem, I can tell you that this success is met with mixed

Beautiful Bott's Court

emotions by the locals. Yes, it’s great for revenues and for showing off the city to tourists. But it also impacts the downtown neighborhoods negatively in terms of parking, noise and garbage. More importantly, the “witch” business has tended to overshadow the “real” history of this special community — the maritime history, the importance of Salem as a trader in luxury goods, the literary history of Nathaniel Hawthorne, the intellectual and artistic history of the Essex Institute and the Peabody Museum, the critical contributions of Nathaniel Bowditch, whose navigational books are still on every naval ship in the world, and the incredible housing stock that survives in countless neighborhoods around town. And did you know that Alexander Graham Bell made the first phone call here? Or that the Lyceum Restaurant (where the call was made) was the site of an original lyceum, attracting many of the world’s most well-known speakers? Well, the list goes on, right up to modern times — Salem is also the home town of one Jack Welch, former chairman/CEO of General Electric. Not bad.

Along Essex Street

So when the residents here are confronted with nothing but tourists dressed up in witch and ghoul costumes for the better part of a month, they have to grin and bear it. After all, if you dig deep enough into the Salem Witch Trials, you will see that they had very little to do with actual witchcraft. And that nobody was burned. Probably hundreds of books and videos are for sale around Salem dealing with the subject — Bob Cahill has written several of them. Try to find a reliable account — from the Peabody Essex Museum, for example— if you want to read about it.

The Great Kearney Pumpkin

This year, the Haunted Happenings Parade launched the season on October 7 and there’s no stopping it. Every day there’s something to do — witch history, pirate history, haunted houses, theatrical events, psychic fairs, and so on. Here are a few of my favorites:

• Salem Witch House — home of Judge Jonathan Corwin of the Witch Trials
• Salem Witch Museum — Salem’s most visited museum
• Peabody Essex Museum — with roots back to 1799
• Phillips House — the only house open to the public on historic Chestnut Street
• Witch Trials Memorial — in a very moving park setting
• The Witch Trial Trail — by Jim McAllister, Salem’s official historian
• The House of the Seven Gables — Hawthorne’s inspiration
• Salem Maritime National Historic Site — go on board the Friendship & the Fame
• Salem Ferry — Ride from Boston to Salem in style

Dolci at Adriatic Restaurant

There’s still time to go. Get a taste of New England fall and the madness that is Salem in October. It’s wonderful, really. And the restaurants and shops that have sprung up since we left five years ago are astonishing. It’s a special place year-round that goes a little crazy for a few weeks every year. It’s allowed. It’s lived through more than most places and has forgotten more history than most cities ever knew. There. I’ve said it. I love Salem. Go see it!

Buon viaggo!

If you have the choice of going to Alaska or reading about Alaska, read about it. — Annie Dillard

No offense to Alaska, but that was the reminder we got at last week’s James River Writers Writing Show event on research. All of which is to say that whether we’re writing about travel or reading about travel, we’ve got to do the homework. And that sometimes the reading is better than the travel itself. And now, thanks to America’s über-librarian, Nancy Pearl, we have the resources to read right at our fingertips.

You probably recognize Ms. Pearl’s name from NPR’s Morning Edition program, in which she recommends books and talks about the adventure of reading. She was the person responsible for the internationally-acclaimed program, If All of Seattle Read the Same Book. She’s written several helpful and well-researched books: Book Lust and More Book Lust, two volumes of thematic book lists to help answer the question, “What to read next?” There’s also Book Crush, which does the same thing for young adult readers and has a companion journal volume so that kids and teens can write about their favorite books and stay connected with the stories and characters long after the last page has been turned. All good stuff.

Until now, we travel writers and armchair travelers had to search to  find stories for our background research or escape reading vis-à-vis  the places we wanted to go. But no more. Sasquatch Books has just  published Ms. Pearl’s extremely useful and broadly scoped Book Lust  To Go: Recommended Reading for Travelers, Vagabonds, and  Dreamers.  In it, she provides titles and authors of what she considers  to be the best of both fiction and non-fiction literature concerning  place and the idea vs. the reality of travel. Specific countries (Holland,  Nigeria, Turkey), cities (Boston, Hong Kong, Leningrad) or types of  travel challenges (train travel, crossing oceans in tiny unmotorized  boats, walking in unpredictable places) are all covered in this 300-  page treasure trove. I believe it’s a must-have for anybody who’s  curious about travel or the art of travel writing.

Of course, I picked it up to see what she recommended for the Italian  traveler/travel writer, and I wasn’t disappointed. Moreover, I was  delighted to see that I had read many of the volumes she recommends and am also delighted to learn that I have many more to read. Some of my favorites of Ms. Pearl’s recommendations for La Bella Italia are:

Parma:            Playing with Pizza (John Grisham) & The Charterhouse of Parma (Stendhal)

Rome:              The Seasons of Rome: A Journal (Paul Hoffman)

Sicily:              The Leopard (Giuseppe di Lampedusa) & Sicilian Odyssey (Francine Prose)

Venice:            Venice Observed (Mary McCarthy)

Verona:            Anything by Tim Parks!

But Ms. Pearl takes us farther afield, as well, recommending books about Wales, Finland, Zambia, the Galapagos, Guernsey, Afghanistan and Wyoming, among other locations. She also touches on travel to imaginary places and traveler’s tales in verse. And in the section on Vietnam, I was gratified to see one of my favorite authors, Tim O’Brien, included with three of his titles, most especially The Things They Carried.

Pick up Book Lust To Go and do some armchair traveling yourself. Even better, use it to do some deep reading in advance of your next trip!

Buon viaggio!