Tutti i Santi Ognissnati

Tonight we are holed up in an Agriturismo (farm-stay) in Campofilone, Le Marche. There is a thunderstorm raging outside, stretching its vast electric fingers of far out across the Adriatic. The rain has been heavy; sporadically we have to mop the tiles by the door to stop it from creeping into the bedroom.

We’ll head out in about an hour to hopefully find some dinner. The majority of our afternoon was spent driving along the coast road searching in vain for an open Supermarket. We couldn’t figure out why they were shut. We now know enough Italian to know the days of the week, times, open/closed etc and all signs (literally) suggested they should be open. Hungry and confused, we wondered whether they just have extreme lunch breaks locally. A “normal” lunch break for Italy is midday to four-ish, the stores close up shop- most inconvenient!

As it turns out, when we returned from our fruitless hunt, today is a national public holiday. All Saints Day or Tutti i Santi Ognissnati in Italian. Why didn’t anybody tell us? Hang on, they probably did, we just didn’t know what they were rattlin’ on about. Today is also the first of the new season, making the storm very befitting.

On Saturday we left the West Coast and the region of Campania and drove north east to the East Coast and Le Marche. We started out early (painfully), to avoid the traffic and to cram in a four hour stopover in Pompeii before the five hour drive.

Pompeii was magical; it was like someone picked us up, shrunk us down and matrix-ed us into Age of Empires or Civilization. Not wanting to tackle the crowds we didn’t join a recommended tour group but chose to semi-wing it. Map and iphone in hand we had a wonderful morning adventuring through the roman ruins. Roman history, Pompeii included, falls into the category of things I don’t seem to know enough about. I am hungry for information!

The city is so well preserved by the volcanic ash that it isn’t at all difficult to imagine it in all of its glory. There are still many layers unexcavated, we even saw archaeologists on active digs at the site; one scrubbing down a clay vase in a city fountain. Fascinating.

A note to the squeamish: stop reading now.

Before leaving Atrani we ferried and walked our way to a few other destinations; Capri, Positano and Amalfi. In Positano we had a wonderful meal at a beachside seafood restaurant. One of us ordered the squid ink risotto, jet black, gloriously flavoured with Parmagiano and threaded with squid meat, it was devilishly good. Frighteningly though, it had a similar effect on ones digestive system, that eating too much beetroot at a summer BBQ might. 

Salute!

We have a half bottle of Gaja Sperss 2000 breathing downstairs, I’m wrapped in a brand new cashmere (the real stuff) shawl, we’ve just been sipping Prosecco on the banks of Lake Como and I'm about to tell you how we are having a difficult time splurging. After scrimping and saving for so long, we are finding it extremely difficult to spend our money. Truly.

I guess that means our parents (and our Dolomite Accounts) trained us well.

Today’s wine and shawl aside, our trip has been riddled with moments of indecision. Pros and cons weighed and in most instances the object of desire being left behind (and quickly forgotten) for the next cashed up tourist. I think we are trying to find a balance.

We left Burgundy on Sunday morning and drove through Lyon towards The French Alps. We spent the night at a chalet style apartment with divine views of Mont Blanc.

The mountain seemed to make a mockery of Australia’s cherished peaks. Epic is overused in current vocabulary but I’ll use it here with no hesitation. Straining our necks skywards we could just capture the sheer immensity of the Mountain. For me, it made the scale of Everest and K2 inconceivable. Everywhere we turned cried out to be photographed and framed. It’s like we had view-finder goggles on. The valleys were scattered with timber framed alpine villages, some rising steeply up the neighbouring mountain sides. Milky green glacial rivers and streams ran along the motorways, often fed from waterfalls cascading towards the valley floor.

It’s a shame the weather gods did not favour us. Thick cloud cover continually rolled through the Alps, hiding the mountains and villages. Call me paranoid but this seemed to happen every time I got the camera ready.

After watching the sun rise from behind the mountain we gathered up our belongings and drove into Italy.

We are starting our Italian sojourn in Mezzegra, a small hillside town in Lombardia, on the west bank of Lake Como. Our townhouse is on a very steep property with its own olive orchard. Built in 1690, we are told it was where Mussolini stayed the night before he was shot.

Continuing a theme, we asked our gracious hosts Natalie and Mario where we should have dinner. As it was Monday and most restaurants were closed she suggested a local Trattoria. She called on our behalf and made us a booking. Trattoria Nana is the kind of local eatery you wish was just around your block. Fresh, cheap and authentic. As soon as we’d scoured the menu, picking up on the dishes Natalie recommended we try, we were already deciding to book for another evening.

We shared an entree to start, Pizzoccheri; a highlight of our trip thus far. As the smell of butter wafted towards us, we knew we were in for treat. Homemade buckwheat pasta, chard stalks cut fine, plenty of sage and potato cooked until soft all combined with an oozy, buttery and cheesy sauce. Wasn’t much to look at, but it tasted seriously good. Wash that down with a glass of vino di casa (Bonarda @ €4 for a half litre) and we were well on our way to foodie nirvana.

For mains we shared Coniglio (rabbit) and Cotechino (slow cooked pork sausage) and for dessert Tiramisu and Fromaggi Misti. Molto molto benne! The cheeses are made by the family who run the restaurant, some of the best I’ve tasted. Of the three served our pick was a three day old sheep’s cheese that you eat dressed with a little extra virgin olive oil. It was zesty, had a fine crumb and really made the local oil sing.

It’s dawned on me that those of you who receive the blog via email, might not be enjoying our photo stream. Click the link to the blog home page to have a look.

Over and out.

Slump

I think I've hit a blogging wall. I'm not sure what's exactly at the root of it, but I have an idea.

I think it stems from the sameness of our last five destinations. Since leaving Champagne the towns we have visited have been beautiful, scenic and historic. Troyes, Bruges, Brussels, Antwerp and Strasbourg. Each rich with museums, cathedrals, famous town heroes and local delicacies. Yet, the semblance of them nags at me. "Didn't I walk this same cobbled road last week?"

Nothing sparkles or inspires me.

That's not to say we're not enjoying ourselves. The food is tasty and the fresh produce markets make us both feel like kids in a candy store. Mouths open in wonderment.

Or maybe it's not them, maybe it's us. Maybe we have been away from home for just on a month and are starting to miss the comforts of familiarity. Perhaps the joy and exhilaration of the unknown is beginning to wear us thin.

Mick remembers a line from the tour-bus tour he did of Europe four years ago, "ABC" Another Bloody Church. I feel like they are sucking the awe out of me.

Woe is me.

Pinch me!

Allo!

Picture this, one happy camper on a two seater, chilled Lillet Blanc in hand, Gillian Welch singing The Revelator in the background and quiche Lorraine warming in the oven.

“Pinch me?” I said to Michael as he stoked the wood heater in our cottage in Mairy sur Marne.

Argh. I got a head of myself. I haven’t even spoken to you about Paris yet.

Paris was... superb. We stayed in the 18^th, close to the Cimetiere Montmatre where Edgar Degas is buried. We didn’t visit, but I sent them my regards through the ether. We did the usual traipsing of the city. The Louvre, Jardin du Luxembourg, Champs Elysee, Le Marais (felafel is still to die for (TDF)) and Musee d’Orsay. I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice to say Ingres and his friends are all safe and well.

For me, Paris is a city I will keep coming back to. It’s not for everyone, but I find the mix of culture, history and joie de vivre, bracing and mesmerizing.

One story I will share with you took place at our local bar, La Fourmi. On our second visit to this tremendously trendy bar we found ourselves a table for two on a crowded Friday evening. As it turns out, our quiet couple of beers coincided with a local celebration. Bloc Party were had a gig locally that night and somehow this resulted in free Bingo at all of the coolest venues across town.

Our neighbour introduced himself and his companion to us. In French at first then practically flawless English (he had spent a year in Sydney) “My name is Jerry and this Sara”, she corrected him “MAGGIE!!” Laughter and bonding ensued.

Jerry and Maggie guided us throughout the evening, translating the Jason Schwartzman (in his I Heart Huckabees days) lookalike host and his Barbie-esque assistant as they animatedly called the bingo numbers and side competitions throughout the evening. It felt like we were foreigners who had stumbled backstage at a Eurovision song contest. Totally surreal.

Ok. Back to currents events.

We left Paris this morning and drove ourselves (in the most luxurious Citroen you’ve ever seen, two tier upgrade!) towards Reims. Our village is on the outskirts of Chalon en Champagne. At this point we don’t even know where we are located in the greater “Champagne” scheme of things (not a vine in sight) but that is not dampening our mood.

We are bunking for the week in a caretakers cottage come gite at Domaine du Chateau de Mairy. A bee-ute-ti-full Chateau complete with orchard, lake and chickens etc. It looks like it was quite run down before the current owners moved in, which only adds to its charm. It’s the kind of place that one can only dream of. White washed walls, vintage glass chandeliers, quasi-vintage eclectic furniture (my favourite) and a claw foot tub.

I just did some maths; I was a little concerned that we were splurging with this place. We’re not. It works out at AU$86, which is expensive as far as gites go in this area but compared to what we were paying in London and Paris (approx AU$115 for a miniscule hovel), a steal.

We don’t have many plans past this evening’s meal. Tomorrow morning we will visit the Chateau after breakfast in the gardens and use the internet to plan our week.

Missing you.

Chanterelle, what a nice name.

Our long drive yesterday took us to Mendocino. A very quaint (read- so cute it hurts) seaside town. We found shelter and bedded down for the night.

Up early this morning we made our way to the Sub-Surface Progression Dive Shop where we met our host for the day. Ryane Snow is a sixty-something localtarian (only eats food from within a 100 mile radius). An ex-chemist and school teacher he is now a retiree who makes his way in the world by foraging the local forests, diving for abalone, surfing the coast and travelling the world (most recently China) hunting for mushrooms. Not a bad way to get by if you ask me.

The plan (in our minds) was to have Ryane guide us through the forest, collecting wild mushrooms along the way. Having only been in contact with him via email up until yesterday evening, we were a little unsure of what exactly to expect. My sensible girl alarm bells started ringing when he said "we might have to be a little sneaky... I'm a bit of an outlaw" but, i'll admit, the thrill of adventure was enough to get us up and out of bed before midday.

From the dive shop we excitedly followed Ryane in our car inland to our first stop. Now I'll stop for a second and warn you. This next part could get gushy. It could develop into spontaneous bouts of sacchariferous prose.

My heart skipped a beat at our first sight of the Red Wood Forests. The trees were majestic and the scent of the forest uplifting.

As we started out he warned us that the recent weather on the coast (summer heatwave coming late in the season) meant that the forests would most likely be crisp and not very mushroom friendly. We remained optimistic.

It turns out Ryane doesn't really like paths, so for the next four hours we traipsed along behind him, up hill and down dale. All the while he regaled us with his knowledge of the local forest and it's bountiful harvest.

And bountiful it was, we ate huckleberries (both red and black) and dogberries along the way. Both tasting somewhat like blueberries crossed with currants. We wondered what link there might have been between Huckleberry Hound and the two different species... My post-adventure research came up blank.

But where are the mushrooms? Well he had been right, there weren't many around. Chanterelles were the only edible mushroom on offer this soon after summer. The "potato chip" crackle of the forest floor his give-away of a too-dry location. We did hunt them out however and a hefty three pound (guestimation) sack of them was our reward.

He told us (teased us) that if we'd been out there in a month or two's time the forest would be "popping" with mushrooms. Morels, Pine, Beefsteak (which when you cut open looks like a bloody piece of meat) and Porcini to name a few.

I could go on, but I must cut this long story short. We farewelled Ryane, a little disappointed we hadn't been asked to do anything too illegal (trespassing is okay, right?) and jubilantly took our prize to a local picnic ground for our lunch. We cooked the chanterelles in a little butter and enjoyed their sweet nuttiness with salad, cheese etc for lunch.

Epic day, epic blog post. I feel all conquistador-y.

We now find ourselves in the heart of Californian wine country. Until next time.

xo

Sittin' in the mornin' sun.

We woke this morning to a beautiful sunny day. We started out indulging ourselves with a late breakfast of Chili Cheese Dogs. Delicious. A word to the wise, don't inspect the cheese too closely...

Again we headed SOMA, this time to MOMA (Museum of Modern Art). Their main exhibition was titled Calder to Warhol. A private collection from the Fisher family (founders of The Gap). It was a great mixed collection, including one of my favourite Warhol prints featuring the King.

The exhibition that really caught my eye however, was titled New Topographics. It is a complete restaging of a 1975 exhibition of the same name. It featured photographs of industrial and suburban landscapes; often stark or desolate. Un-traditional beauty highlighted by the artists use of composition and lighting.

We walked north from MOMA along the docks. I sung the song while Mick elbowed me to shut-it.

We lusted our way through the Marketplace. A collection of local stalls selling free range this and local organic that. As we walked north, the famous fog rolled in through the Golden Gates. Fresh off the Pacific Ocean it rapidly chilled the sea breeze. Sweet relief from the hot sun.

We caught the last boat tour of the bay which took us underneath the Golden Gate Bridge, through thick fog, via pods of bay dolphins, around the island home of Alcatraz and back to the docks past a colony of seals being oogled by a thousand tourists.

An observation for you: in Australian English we pronounce Hyundai "Hee-un-day" or "Hi-yun-die" in American it's simply "Hun-day". This is apparently, the official pronunciation they chose when the car company was introduced to the states in 80's. Too many syllables?

We cheerily took our windswept selves towards Fisherman's Wharf for dinner. Fresh Dungeness Crab served in shell with chili, garlic and scallions (trans. Spring Onions) marinade. We resisted the promenade corn-dog stands and the not-so-legal looking churros vendor (man standing on footpath with foil wrapped churros) and headed back into town on Powell-Mason Cable Car.

We are looking forward to tomorrow. We pick up the car and head north to Mendocino.

Open road here we come.

Live a little.

Day Two. We awoke at ten this morning (after dropping dead at 8pm). I wonder if our jet-lag is still with us.

We made it SOMA (south of Market) for "breakfast" at 1pm. A little Googling led us to Blue Bottle Coffee, a hidden un-signposted, St Ali-esque coffee nirvana/cafe. Mike enjoyed thick cut toast with the MOST delicious strawberry jam I have ever tasted, while I greened it up with a Little Gem (trans. Cos lettuce), poached egg and heirloom tomato salad. The coffee was moreish, but being late in the day already, we had to stop at one. The line of drooling customers that threatened to creep around the block also put us off another round.

After we realised we didn't actually have plans for our four days in San Fran we hot-tailed it to Borders and, like any good food lover sussed out the foodies section. We bought a book called The Tablehopper's Guide to Dining and Drinking in San Francisco a cheekily written guide with smart section titles like "Shituations" or "Ladies who Lunch like Dudes". The only thing it's missing is maps showing where everything is. We pawed the pages for an hour trying to find the locations on our dog-eared tourist map. Not tourist friendly, I guess not everything is meant to be. *sigh*

We indulged with a film in the afternoon. I wouldn't mention the title... but must- only as a warning. Eat Pray Love was cloying to say the least. Roberts owes a lot to her childhood orthodontist. Please! No! No more teeth!

Back in China Town we had a late dinner at the very-un-chinese-sounding Broadway Cafe, aptly named on Broadway Blvd. It was CHEAP, fast and authentic (Cantonese I think?!). By CHEAP I mean really. US$4.75 for a bowl of wonton noodle soup, packed with seafood, fresh baby bok choy and aromatic broth. We had a suprising stand-out dish of XO green beans, I could have finished the plate myself and I probably would have had Mick let me. Oh! I almost forgot, I had a glass of the freshest of fresh watermelon juice (US$1.75). Practically life changing. Have you seen the exchange rate lately? I don't know how they do it.

With J.W and M.J.H in the back of my mind I convinced Mick we needed to live a little. We headed for a local dive, Li Po Bar on Grant St. A small Chinese cocktail bar up top, with a legit underground soul/Rhythm & Blues/breakdancing club downstairs. We had a couple of beers upstairs before sampling their famous Mai Tai (with "secret" ingredient- Chinese Whiskey) and and heading downstairs. Think First Floor crossed with Cherry Bar with the added attraction of free-pouring bar staff and fewer lights.

As we left the harmonies of a capella beat-boxing and rapping trailed behind us.

xo.