It is a curious practice we have of kissing a 330 million-year-old dirty limestone. Legend has it that those who kiss the Blarney Stone are given the “gift of gab.” What is gab, anyway? And more importantly, why do we want it? Being a “talker” isn’t usually the most desirable trait — am I wrong?
Shockingly, kissing the Blarney Stone was not on my shortlist of priorities during my month-long tour of the Irish coast, inspired by Rick Steves. The city of Cork was on my shortlist, however, a gorgeous city well-worth a visit in southern Ireland, just a two-and-a-half hour train ride from Dublin. Blarney Castle, where you find the Blarney Stone, is a short trip outside of Cork.
When I arrived in Cork I didn’t have much of an itinerary planned, which is how I like to travel. My Irish-American father reminded me of the once-in-a-lifetime Ireland trip my great aunts made many decades ago, which had included a trip to kiss the Blarney Stone. So I thought, sigh, OK. Twist my arm. Why not?
I started hinting to new Irish friends that I was considering kissing the Blarney Stone, and they were mostly all disgusted with me – in the most positive of ways, of course. I have become accustomed to being balked at by locals for my tourist activities, as this kind of reaction was akin to what I experienced in Austria when I told people I went to Salzburg partly to visit The Sound of Music locations. And could I really blame the Irish for judging me for deciding to willingly risk infection from swapping spit with strangers for the chance at acquiring the gift of gab?
My Irish friends were more than a few steps ahead of me in understanding this endeavor, as I was starting to realize I had no idea what I was getting into. My first clue should have been when our tour bus driver included a disclaimer about being afraid of heights before we set off to the Blarney Castle from Cork. Strange, I thought, having imagined the stone fixed in the middle of a glorious garden with a sword sticking out of it.
I soon discovered my childhood fantasies weren’t anything close to reality. Shocker.
After entering the gorgeous-beyond-your-wildest-expectations grounds of the Blarney Castle via a Disneyland-esque entrance, it took me a while to recover from my shock at the beauty of my surroundings and make my way toward the Blarney Castle, where we were told we would find the stone.
Inside the castle itself there isn’t much to see above what you would expect from an old castle. You know, the typical dungeon down below and a dusty “kitchen” that looks more like a few piles of old rubble.
Having been built many hundreds of years before people considered the handicapped in their architecture, the claustrophobic, winding staircase that was the only way to get to the Blarney Stone – which was apparently on the roof – left much to be desired. It was not my first medieval staircase but it was definitely the most memorable.
Grateful to see the light of day again on the roof of the Blarney Castle, I took a moment to catch my breath but promptly lost it again when I had a moment to take in the view of the immense and lush grounds from above. I busied myself taking photos of the view while I worked up the nerve for what came next, which I had by this time understood that this kissing the Blarney Stone business was somehow designed more for gymnasts than your average tourist, requiring you to lay on your back and lean off the edge of the roof and kiss the stone upside down. Being there early in the day meant no line and not very ample opportunity to fester in my surprise and back out of the whole endeavor. The dramatic American women who arrived just behind me didn’t calm my apprehension with their loud proclamations of “barely” making it up the staircase, and one woman’s tearful protest and insistence on leaving.
I also considered sneaking down the exit staircase, but was heartened by the piles of anti-bacterial spray and paper towels sitting by the stone’s setup, and was spurred along by the ladies that had eventually decided to go for it.
“Your turn” the jolly Irish Blarney Castle worker yelled at me, and the photographer asked me if I wanted a photo.
I was too busy fending the two off to think much about what was going on, which was that I suddenly found myself hanging backwards, upside-down, to kiss the Blarney Stone. It was cold, and hard. And dry, thankfully. The jolly Irish gentleman helped me up, and it was all over before I knew it.
It took about three minutes to recover from the whole ordeal. At which time I don’t know that I was overwhelmed with a gift of gab so much as a feeling of relief and – ok, yes, accomplishment – for this small yet important task I had, surprisingly, completed. While the tradition wasn’t so revered by the local Irish, my experience kissing the Blarney Stone made me feel closer to my aunts that had done the same thing so many years ago, probably as a nod to the heritage that their parents brought with them when they came to the U.S.
The trip down the staircase was notably easier than going up. And I spent the remaining time we had allotted by the tour company exploring the grounds of the castle.
The size and scope of the property and the imagination and meticulousness with which it was tended made me feel like I was winding my way through a living museum of Irish history.
I could have spent days there learning from the stories that the plants and architecture were telling.
I always say my first visit to a country or city, and even an attraction, is my “throw-away” trip, where I learn what I like and don’t like, and if I want to return, what I would do to make my second visit as perfect as it could be. The Blarney Castle is absolutely a place I will return, and give myself plenty of time to get lost in the gardens. The gift of gab, though, I have plenty of. So next time around, the smooching of the Blarney Stone I’ll leave to my tourist friends.
As I continue on with my late-summer East Coast travels – which will soon turn into my early-fall Italy travels – I’m barreling on with my vlog production, hoping to bring at least one of these to you per week. This particular vlog is near and dear to my heart: it documents a special weekend trip to a family mountain home in the Catskills that has been an annual occasion for more than ten years. But decades before this group made the tradition, it was the summer home of my friend’s great-grandparents, who were the matriarch and patriarch of a great family and legends in their own right.
I felt fortunate to be included this year with this group of friends, many who have known each other since childhood. Some of them see each other regularly throughout the year, and some become reacquainted just once a year here in Callicoon. I came to get to know them through a close friend from graduate school and his husband at the annual get-together this past Labor Day, and I felt both totally included and like an observer all at once. Which makes for better vlogging, in the end. Hope you enjoy our trip through Labor Day in the Catskills.
I feel like I have nine lives on WordPress: I disappear for a while, but I always manage to make it back. While some of my favorite alone time is spent reading blogs on WordPress, I’ve jumped into the world of education travel coordination with CISabroad, and coordinating faculty-led university student tours of Italy takes every last bit of energy out of me and leaves no time for blogging. That being said, I love my new job, and as I travel I’m developing more perspective and knowledge on what’s out there to share with you all.
I’m elated that I’ve finally gotten a little break from work, and last week I went to visit the home office of CISabroad, which is located in the beautiful college town of Northampton, MA. I have a beautiful new iPhone now with lots of memory (since I dropped the last one on its face and it lives no more), and I’m taking advantage of the great new lens on this iPhone and plenty of storage to start vlogging, as I’ve been aspiring to do for years. So here it is, friends, my first vlog in several years. Hope it takes you into the world of beautiful Northampton. And I hope you enjoy it! Here’s to many more…
My mom sometimes worries – as many moms do – that she hasn’t been the best mom. But “best” in this case, as in every case, is just relative. Who in this case would be the definitive judge of all moms in terms of being “the best?” Donna Reed? Michelle Obama? Angelina Jolie? The idea of a “best mom contest” is kind of hilarious, maybe because it is such a personal role.
True, my mother was not waiting for me when I got home from school with freshly baked cookies. Or tagging along on my school trips. Instead of living her life through me and my activities, my mom was pursuing her passion for art, and bringing me along on that ride of discovery. I can think if no better way of learning about life and living than through art, and for that, my mom is the best mom, for me. 🙂
When I was in her belly in Togo, West Africa, she was scouring the African beaches for the most beautiful shells, and taking them home and sketching them.
When I was a toddler, she was pursuing her masters in photography at Indiana University and using me as her model as she experimented with large format photography.
When I was in grammar school, she was forging new artistic territory in our border home in Southern California, setting up photography exhibits of her hip-shots in Mexicali and large format photography of Mexican families. She would often bring me with her to Mexico when she was shooting. Even as a six-year-old I would get nervous crossing the border, and worry that I would forget where I was born when the border patrol agent asked me. She would always patiently remind me.
When I was in high school, she was working long hours as a newspaper photographer, documenting the stories that needed to be told in our low-income community. She would bring me along on stories she knew I would especially love, like watching baby pigs be born late one night, and visiting a buffalo farm.
She painted in the little spare time that she had. Now, my mom’s art is sculpting the environment of her backyard, a garden oasis in the desert.
I thank my mom for giving me a love and ability for art both through nature, and nurture.
But better yet, the drive behind my mom’s pursuance of art is perhaps the best qualities she has – curiosity, passion, intelligence, and independence. Having had a mom that waited for me to get home every day would have given me a lot of security, but instead I was given something that I think I needed more. Independence and curiosity are instrumental qualities for being a successful traveler and photographer, and I don’t think I would have ever been able to realize my life of traveling without these skills my mom taught me as a role model and as her apprentice.
So on this day I hope my mom, and all moms, know how much they have given us, and can challenge themselves to enjoy that, without worry or doubt, for at least the twenty-four hours of this awesome day, Mother’s Day. Happy Mother’s Day Mom!!
I have a bit of a guilty conscience about the traveling I do. I think about my carbon footprint growing each time I get on an airplane. Trips to protected national and state parks also weigh on my conscience, reminding me of how fragile these ecosystems are, as their protection comes for a reason. In the same way, time spent on incredible beaches not yet visibly polluted by mankind feels like a luxury, yet at the same time, a responsibility. On the other hand, I am grateful for improvements in transportation that not only help us but also help the environment, like the wonderful train system in Europe, where each train service has a way of reminding me how much more environmentally conscious train travel is in respect to other options.
Overwhelmingly, though, my travels give me a simple love for the world, which I am celebrating today on Earth Day along with many of my fellow bloggers. The diversity and scope of this earth is hard to even compute in a logical way, and I am grateful to have my camera lens to use as a way of sorting through and putting together all of the pieces of our wonderful world.
The first pieces of my discoveries are those moments in my travel adventures that have been so big that they’ve taken my breath away, such as the enormous mountain landscape in the Rocky Mountain National Park,
and these giant trees that seem to almost dwarf the Washington Memorial,
or me emerging from Piazza San Marco and taking in the Adriatic Sea in Venice,
the valley that I love that falls below Assisi, which must have been such an inspiration for St. Francis,
the feeling of seemingly being on top of Rome,
the drama of the Italian Dolomiti,
the landscape of Utah,
or just a simple bend of the road on Highway 101 south of Santa Barbara that opens a whole other world.
Along with the “wow” moments are the moments of serenity that have given me the time to reflect on just how amazing the world can be, like Ojai’s incredible “Pink Moment” that I’m lucky to witness every year at the Ojai Playwrights Conference,
or the island of Ponza’s incredible sea,
and the beautiful countryside in the center of Salzburg,
and the equally enjoyable countryside just outside of Ben Wheeler, Texas,
as well as at the Chiemsee lake in Germany,
and Lake Como, Italy,
and at home in El Centro, California.
Perhaps my favorite moments on Earth are the ones that just grab me and make me happy to be alive, almost as if I’ve stepped into a bit of heaven, like here on the Lincoln Highway in Pennsylvania,
and at these enchanting gardens outside of Castelfranco Veneto,
and on my way down to the sea in Cinque Terre,
enjoying lunch with some of my favorite people in the hills of Bologna,
at the Mirabell Gardens in Salzburg,
taking in mountains and public art in Trento, Italy,
and the cherry blossoms blooming at Lake Como, Italy.
In addition to all of the glee and appreciation that I get from discovering all there is to appreciate about the world, there are also a lot of times when I am saddened by what I’m seeing happening to the earth. Luckily, I know I’m not alone in my frustration. These moments really overtake me when I’m visiting the big cities on the sea like Naples, where so much of the beauty is obscured by smog and buildings,
or when I’m reminded what’s happening under the sea,
or finding trash covered beaches in Puglia that makes me wonder what our American beaches would look like without the great volunteers and public money that keep them in better shape,
or finding big pieces of waste where you least expect them.
But my travels also show me what we are doing right. I am very respectful of the diligence that many Italians have with recycling all of their trash meticulously. Or the absolute attention that the Austrians give their environments, inside and out. And the hard work of architects to incorporate our necessary buildings into our beautiful environments. When it comes to architecture, I can think of no better example than Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater in Pennsylvania,
and in Siena, Italy, I experienced a similar harmony which was gorgeous, whether purposeful or not,
and not forgetting about the work of artists like this one on exhibit at Art Basel in Basel, Switzerland, who did such a great job of projecting our love and fascination with the creatures under the sea,
or these locals in Cesenatico, Italy, who created their own respect for the sea – the city’s economic livelihood – as a public art display for all to enjoy.
I hope that what has come through the lens of my camera has brought you a little bit of the emotion that these discoveries have brought to me…as well as a little reminder of what Earth Day means and the challenge in and importance of preserving these incredible places. Thanks for reading. 🙂
After spending most of the last five years of my life in Bologna, Italy, the day after Valentine’s Day will never be the same. With the same pioneering, rule-breaking spirit that the Italians have brought to art, fashion, engineering, architecture, and crime, they’ve also brought to Valentine’s Day by creating their own holiday celebrating singles everywhere (everywhere meaning: the more the merrier) called Saint Faustino’s Day. Happening annually on February 15th, the holiday would more appropriately be described as “clandestine lovers day.” Since today is Saint Faustino’s Day, and you might not find yourself anywhere near Italy, here’s a little story to get you inspired for next year’s party planning.
It was a quiet afternoon in January and my tranquil afternoon was rudely interrupted by my telephone.
“Riiiiiiing!”
“Hello?” I answered from my apartment in Bologna, Italy.
“Yo Peg! What’s up? Can I use your place the day after Valentine’s Day?” comes the voice of my high school friend, also an American living in Bologna, and herein referred to as GF to protect his identity.
“What?! Why?”
“Why do you think? I want to meet girls!”
Sigh. Of course.
“I don’t understand how your constant interest in the opposite sex has anything to do with my place or the day after Valentine’s Day,” I responded with the typical bit of annoyance creeping into my voice, a common occurrence in conversations with GF.
“Peg, what’s your problem? Everyone knows the day after Valentine’s Day is singles day in Italy. I can’t have a party at my place! I’d have to do the cleaning up!”
Obviously my friend GF has a lot of redeeming qualities that outweigh – or at least balance – the less than ideal ones. And, as usual, I fell prey to his obscure charm and agreed to host a February 15th singles party at my apartment, much to the chagrin of my three roommates. I mean, hey, I was single. Why not get into the spirit, right? No sense in languishing in feelings of inadequacy on Valentine’s Day when I can be busy party planning for Saint Faustino’s Day.
Party-planning immediately got underway, meaning I created what turned out to be a fairly robust Facebook invite. GF constantly monitored it to check out how attractive the girls were that had RSVPed “yes.”
But as the big day approached, I got sick. Strep throat. It wasn’t pretty. And I had no insurance to get antibiotics, as my “permission to stay” application had not been finalized yet by the Italian authorities, which meant that I was living in a crack within Italian bureaucracy and had no legitimate access to healthcare (although, to their credit, I could always go to the hospital and would be well taken care of). On February 12th I found myself sitting and crying on the couch in our dining room because my fever was so high. I didn’t know what to do, and things really weren’t looking good for Saint Faustino. My Turkish roommate Zey, who is possibly the nicest person on earth, walked by on the way to the kitchen. She assessed the situation (me) and quickly produced the travel antibiotic she always gets before leaving Istanbul and returning to Bologna.
I started taking them right away. I stayed in bed constantly, abstaining from all social invites and even cancelling teaching English lessons. I was determined: I had to get well for the Saint Faustino party.
Valentine’s Day came and went quickly. Forgettable. And I quickly found myself waking up on Saint Faustino’s Day. I was still really sick. So what did I do? I got out of bed, took a shower, and put on my best pink cocktail dress and a whole lotta makeup. I figured if I wasn’t going to heal the old-fashioned way, I may as well just give it the good old college try.
We decorated our dining-room-with-a-couch with a random assortment of accessories from the 99 cent store (actually, multiple 99 cent stores, since they are practically on every corner in Bologna). Friends started arriving, mostly from my graduate program at the University of Bologna and our extended circle. GF arrived fashionably late with his sidekick and enough liquor for an army. He immediately started complaining about my playlist and anxiously awaiting enough guests to make the party not embarrassingly empty.
And came they did. Very fashionably late. But what would a party be in Italy if the guests arrived before 11pm? Boring, that’s what! 😉 Friends came in groups and trickles of singles that we knew from all over town. People tossed their coats in my room.
Was everyone single? Not even close. But we all had at least one thing in common – we were all indisputably fun-loving. Somebody brought a guitar. Others starting noting my Valentine’s accessories and playing games. People paired up and then mingled again. A couple found my room suitable for making out, which didn’t stop people from grabbing their coats and enjoying the entertainment.
I noticed my project partner in my statistics class was spending a long time in my kitchen talking with the roommate of one of our classmates, a beautiful Italian woman. GF noticed too and wasted no time in swooping in as soon as my statistics partner left early. Hallelujah! The party was officially a success. GF met a beautiful woman that he wouldn’t have met otherwise.
I don’t remember when GF and his Saint Faustino’s Day interest left. But I remember quite distinctly that my last party guests didn’t leave till 4am. And they insisted I join them wherever they were going next. I declined, out of character for me.
I didn’t want to push my luck. It was 4am, I was feeling better than I had in over a week, GF was happy, and I had just thrown a memorably enjoyable party. Life was good.
So I went to bed, and woke up feeling awesome. GF called. No fireworks with his Saint Faustino’s Day catch, but he was happy nonetheless. My statistics partner messaged me. He wanted me to help him get to know this girl better. The same girl.
Never a dull moment.
And now, they are married. My statistics partner and the beautiful Italian girl that made such a splash at my first Saint Faustino’s Day party. I can barely wait to tell their kids the story of how their parents met in my kitchen. And it is all thanks to GF, and the fierce spirit of the Italians in their quest for love. There is no occasion not worthy of pursuing potentially life-changing love, especially the day after Valentine’s Day. Here’s to making the most of every day, especially today. Happy Saint Faustino’s Day!!!
It was 11pm and I was standing alone outside the Lecce train station with two luggages, two bags, no ride, no money, and Lecce’s Wikitravel entry loaded on my iphone, warning me about Lecce’s rip-off taxis. Well, thank heavens. I had phone service.
I had just endured three days and two nights of continuos travel to get to Lecce, Italy (in the region of Puglia) from San Diego, CA, for the wedding of two of my best friends: an Italian bride from Lecce, and an American groom from Buffalo. They met on Valentine’s Day at a party at my apartment in Bologna, years ago. I couldn’t wait for the nuptials, and the celebration, but mostly to be reunited with some of my best friends.
So despite obvious fatigue and ambiguity about the next few hours of my life, and the lack of fairytale charm that was driving my current travel story, being back in Italy after five long months away and the promise of what was to come was enough to keep my spirits up.
I was the first out-of-town guest to arrive in Lecce. I made it to the B&B in an overpriced cab (Wikitravel is always right) and slept in a damp cave-like hallway of a room in a bottom bunk. Still unfazed, I woke up the next morning and tried my best to play host to the string of foreigners arriving by bus and train, depending on whether they flew in on a budget flight to nearby Brindisi, or endured a long train ride from a major airport. We were stuck like sardines, eleven of us, in the small B&B with two bathrooms with no central access. But we were happy nonetheless to be reunited once again. Many of us had studied arts management together, while others were students or teachers in other capacities. But we all had at least three things in common: the bride, the groom, and we weren’t from Lecce.
That evening, in the absence of the tradition of a bachelor/bachelorette party, the bride had organized a pre-party to celebrate with friends. I’d been tasked with preparing a “Bologna style gag” for the occasion. Meaning that, because Bologna is a university town, it is famous for graduation traditions involving a significant level of public humiliation, such as printing out bad quality, embarrassing pictures of the graduate, writing funny captions on them, and posting them on the streets for the public to enjoy. When the groom did this for my Bologna graduation, my landlord sent me a congratulations. “How did you know I graduated?” I asked him. “Well, I saw your pictures on the street of course,” he responded. Eeeek.
So this was my natural choice for the gag for the “quasi bachelor/ette” party. Three of us from the “foreigner” cohort spent nearly an hour plastering Lecce with embarrassing photos of the couple on this busy Friday night in town.
We died of laughter as the pedestrians accepted our “art” with gusto, tourists and locals stopping to enjoy the photos as they headed out for the evening. The public humiliation continued as I managed to get the bride and groom to cross-dress during a “soon to be newlywed” game (photos not included for the sake of the long-term reputation of the couple, sorry guys ;)).
We made it to bed at a fairly decent hour in anticipation of the big event. Venturing out the next morning – the Saturday of the wedding – in the heart of wedding season in gorgeous, baroque Lecce, we seemed to run into a wedding around every corner.
Due to this competitive wedding season, our bride had “settled” on her third choice for the wedding ceremony: Lecce’s duomo.
Let’s just say Lecce’s duomo is not your average duomo, and not your average place to get married, especially by American standards. It is, for lack of a more sophisticated word, immense, and usually packed with tourists. I was dumbfounded that it was even an option to get married in a place of such beauty and history.
We arrived early for the ceremony, dwarfed by the scale of the duomo, and feeling as though we had finally stepped into the pages of the fairytale. Except, are grooms actually nervous in fairytales? We tried our best to console him. The bride was on time, but the organist was late.
Other than the late organist, they managed to get hitched without a hitch. The American “assistant priest” even offered comic relief for all as he embraced his big moment on the duomo altar by taking pictures during the ceremony.
After the ceremony, the bride and groom greeted their adoring family and friends on the steps of the duomo,
tossing the bouquet into our crowd on the edge of the immense piazza,
which ended in a surprising steal by one of the guys, who was teased endlessly after by the bride’s brothers. More priest photo-taking,
and a long string of well-wishing and congratulations, during which the bride’s nana (grandma) took a breather in the coveted limousine (not such a common car in Italy).
We got our pic with the beautiful bride, and then we finally set out for the reception.
The party took place in a castle called Castello Monaci on a piece of country land outside of Lecce. As we pulled up at dusk, it felt like we were arriving at Cinderella’s castle set on the backdrop of the beautiful Pugliese landscape.
First wine tasting in the museum foyer (another building on the estate),
followed by an antipasto buffet in the castle,
complete with all of the bride and groom’s favorite things,
and a few of our own too. 😉
We foolishly thought the antipasto buffet was dinner, but our plates were soon pulled away and a several course wine paired dinner began.
We were all feeling well taken care of.
As we savored the last tasty morsels of dinner, we were beckoned outside for the cake cutting happening in tandem with traditional Pugliese Pizzica and Tarantella music and dance, complete with a traditional band.
Tambourines were ringing as women threw off their heels and ran for the improvised dance floor in the damp grass, everyone trading partners and teaching the little guests and foreigners how to join in.
And just as we all imagined that life couldn’t get much better, we were ushered into another wing in the castle, and greeted by a dessert buffet that could only be matched in my wildest imagination by a scene in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.
Off the dessert bar was an enclosed glass patio where the DJ, the official dance floor, and an open bar awaited.
The grappa was amazing.
And then, just as the clock chiming midnight snuck up on Cinderella, before we knew it 4am had rudely arrived and ended our magical night. The bride and groom retreated to their castle chambers, and we headed off in the Volkswagen of one of the waitresses, as the last taxi in the region had already called it a night. Not exactly a magical carriage ride, and returning to our damp and dark B&B wasn’t so magical either. Reality had arrived, but that was ok. We can’t be too greedy about our special experiences…we got enough of them tonight to even stow some away in reserves for awhile.
And that, my friends, is the end of this fairytale, at least for now…
I’m on a train bound for Kufstein, Austria. I’ve made the trip once before, in the winter, and it was a magical winter wonderland. Now it is an Eden of vegetation as far as the eye can see. Payoff for the long, wet winter. The train conductor is inching along and honking at some miscellaneous intruder. More time to enjoy the scenery…
This is almost the last leg of my whirlwind trip from California to Southern Italy, to Bolona, up to England, back to Bologna, and now on to Austria. I have so many stories to share with you, but I find it difficult to do this from the road, as I focus on living the stories that I write about later. I do manage to get a “pic of the day” posted on my Instagram account, but I often think I would rather post the pic to share with all of you, but I guess I just find the Instagram platform easier to use on the go. Please do find me Instragram so we can also connect that way.
This post is a check-in that I am, in fact, still alive. And it is a promise of some good storytelling to come when I get back to Bologna next week and can get settled in for the summer and can start focusing on other things I love in my life, like blogging with you all!
In the meantime, back I go to looking out the window on this beautiful ÖBB train. I love train rides – they offer such great opportunity for reflection. Maybe too good – I often see people crying on the train. I can’t say I’ve never done it!
We are about to start weaving through the Italian alps, so my phone service will go away. I will be left to staring at mountains and wineries and church steeples with the most particular architecture. So many cultures converge in these parts…borders have always been my favorite places to be.
Hope you all are well! A presto!
Just as Siena is stuck in time, I wish I could have gotten stuck in time in Siena. Like in Groundhog Day, I want to be living that weekend over and over. But unfortunately it didn’t hit me how special my weekend in Siena was until I was actually gone, so I was not able to inquire as to how to stop time when I still had the chance.
So instead I rely on blogging, so at least we can relive it…together.
I had been wanting to go to Siena for years, and years, as I had heard so many bits and pieces of wonderful travel stories from friends who had been lucky enough to travel there. There’s a great blog called “Just Visit Siena” that I’ve been following for a long time, and I even shared a video about it here on the blog a few years ago. But Siena can be tricky to reach, due to mundane logistical challenges called mountains. Pesky details. An eight hour round trip train ride wasn’t worth it in relation to what I envisioned to be an overnight trip.
But after much anticipation, I finally got to go last April with my boyfriend at the time, who drove us. The approach into Tuscany was undeniable and fit perfectly into the stereotype – the road was smaller, the grass was greener, the sun was brighter, and the soft hills curved into infinity. We parked just outside the city, and walked in with our luggage.
I was a bit worried that I would be disappointed with all of my high expectations about Siena. I mean, at this point, I’ve been to a lot of Italian cities, and I’ve found that many of them are alike, or are not necessarily unforgettable. But I shouldn’t have worried. Siena is a place all its own. Siena is, for lack of the creativity to come up with a better word, gorgeous.
There are heart-stopping Tuscan views surprising you constantly, and each perspective is just as memorable (if not more) than the last. And as cliche as it sounds, it is totally true: walking the narrow, winding stone roads feels like it must have hundreds of years ago.
Wandering Siena is a constant visual delight, so walk slowly and indulge in reality, which we did as we toted our luggage and stumbled upon hidden courtyards,
mysterious wells, and other fascinating historical remnants.
We were walking around with our luggage for an extended period of time because we had a small snafu with the hotel we booked on Booking.com. Keep in mind – last minute bookings for Italian hotels via third party booking agents are never a sure thing due to communication challenges, a lack of a customer service initiative, and small hotels. But we found another average, affordable hotel, so the crisis was averted (I never expect much from Italian lodging, but I never have to pay much either). And Booking.com handled the “crisis” well.
Our first night in Siena was a bit quieter than either of us are used to, as we weren’t visiting Siena during the high season of their incredibly famous annual Palio Horse Race in July, and we are both used to the nonstop nightlife of Bologna. There is no nightlife in Siena, so it is a good place to practice “early to bed, early to rise.” There are a ton of interesting events, though, so do your research and plan accordingly.
We joined the crowds on our first morning just walking and looking, relaxing and people watching the never-ending characters in Piazza del Campo, where the Palio Horse Race takes place (in our case the most entertaining animal was pizza-loving dog),
checking out the Duomo,
the neighborhoods proudly displaying their flags supporting their horse,
the famous Museo Civico, and an occasional unexpected attraction like a tiny church we found full of wonderful art and architecture.
We didn’t do the Duomo tour because it was a bit pricey, but one of my English students highly recommends the tour and I definitely regret not doing it.
It is quite easy to eat well in this city without paying a lot, but it is also easy to eat an overpriced, mediocre meal. We used a phone app, maybe yelp, to help us wade through our lunch options after eating an overpriced meal the night before. We ended up at a modern family-run restaurant perched at the top of a hill at a beautiful outdoor table called Zest Ristorante and Wine Bar.
The tiny street it was on stretched ahead, sharply curving down and up another hill, nearly giving me vertigo until I was distracted by spotting the special flags for the neighborhood horse flying proudly and colorfully ahead, and my potential vertigo was replaced with a sigh of appreciation for finding myself in this one-of-a-kind place. As I write this, I am remembering for the first time in a long time that I stopped to think and look around me for a moment, giving thanks to the universe to be able to experience this moment. It sounds corny, but Siena really is that special.
After our amazing lunch, we relaxed again for a bit in Piazza del Campo trying to decide if we had it in us to do the big climb to the top of the Torre del Mangia, the major tower overlooking the piazza that is attached to Palazzo Pubblico, Siena’s City Hall. It cost a bit, and the day was already winding down. But, we decided to go for it.
It was unforgettable. The climb went round and round…the steps were ancient, and we all were forced to cooperate as a group to get to the top.
But it wasn’t overly strenuous, and there were more than enough stops where we could take a rest and breathe in the amazing Tuscan air.
It started raining on the way up, but somehow hiding from the rain and checking out the dramatic storm clouds just added to the drama and adrenaline of the experience.
We finally got to the top, and our reward was a nearly unobstructed 360 degree view of Siena and its surroundings.
By the time we got down, we were so elated, there was nothing else we needed to do to improve our weekend. We returned to a small bar, called the San Paolo Pub, with a balcony overlooking the Piazza del Campo smaller than my closet.
The beers were affordable, and how much space do you need to enjoy a view anyway? It was perfect. We sat there for hours. Couples came and went around us. One was “like us” as my boyfriend had said. “Whose English is better, his or mine?” he asked me earnestly, as he recognized the couple next to us was also an Italian guy dating a young American woman.
It was getting to be that time, but I wasn’t ready to go home. “Let’s go back to the restaurant where we had lunch, please??” I asked him. After all, we hadn’t yet had any of Siena’s famous Chanti. He graciously obliged, and back we went to the same restaurant where we had lunch. The young waitress and the manager, who appeared to be father and daughter, recognized us and greeted us warmly. This is something I love about Italy – people are nice and gracious to you authentically. They were genuinely happy to see us.
Coincidentally, we discovered that the young waitress comes fairly often to the small suburb outside of Bologna where I lived at the time. Apparently she likes a restaurant in my neighborhood (ironically). We talked about where I lived, and that I would be returning to the United States soon. Suddenly, she gave us a worried look. “But what about you guys? What are you going to do, so far away from each other?” she said it in Italian.
Good question, ha! I guess her question could have also been about our trip to Siena. What were we going to do so far away from it? It was just a moment in time, that now I have the vibrant memories from. Hopefully they won’t fade anytime soon. Anyway, most of life is memories, really, isn’t it? What more can I ask for.
Italians find themselves at the sea nearly every summer weekend, whether they smartly rent or own a whole beach house, or just a few feet of sand under an umbrella. Having lived in Bologna for years and living as any honorable Italian would do, I joined in the weekend beach-side adventures, fleeing as far as Ancona, but mostly sticking directly East of Bologna in Rimini, Riccione and Ravenna. But mostly Rimini, because it was familiar. As soon as the fan came down off the top shelf of my closet and propped up by my bed, the early Saturday morning train rides to Rimini commenced. So it was fitting that I spent my last weekend in Italy before my big return to the United States relaxing at the Italian seaside lifestyle that had defined my summers there. But this time I didn’t have to wake up early and take the train. Instead, my boyfriend at the time preferred to drive. And he was a different sort of character. He didn’t do things the same way everyone else did. Instead, he suggested we go to the tiny town of Cesenatico. I didn’t have the slightest idea what to expect, but as always, I was up for the adventure.
The non-eventful drive and the parking process played out like all of my other beach adventures. The drive east toward the Adriatic Sea is flat with huge green fields broken up by an occasional ancient structure. As you approach the sea, there are lots of trees shading the streets and houses. I was unsuspecting as we parked in an ugly supermarket parking lot until we emerged onto the main walkway of the village. Stretching before me was a long canal that ran to the sea, flanked by colorful buildings and sporting a long line of cleverly named boats. But these weren’t recreational boats, they were fishing boats. And the canal, apparently, is famous because it was once surveyed by Leonardo da Vinci. Only in Italy.
I was surprised by my surroundings. “Where are we again?” I asked him. I’m bad with proper nouns. “Cesenatico,” he replied. “But this place is so cool – why doesn’t everyone come here?” “I don’t know,” he said. “But that’s why I like it. Not everyone comes here.”
He was right. There were definitely other Italian tourists, but they were mostly families. Instead of walking into a tourist trap, it felt instead like we were stepping into the seaside life of these lucky Italians that call Cesenatico home.
We walked down the crowded main stretch along the canal, toward the sea. I almost felt like a voyeur, watching all the families and the family dogs enjoying their Saturday. There was even a funky shaped boat that cost one euro that would take you to the other side of the canal if you so desired.
We drifted until we couldn’t walk anymore, to the point at the end of the boardwalk. Fishermen and teens and couples like us trickled around, but nothing overwhelming. Near the boardwalk was a sprawling restaurant with whitewashed walls and tables. We were led to a table in the sand. A family with a toddler playing in the sand sat at the next table. We sat a bit with our drinks, the sight and sounds of the sea releasing our stress, much of which stemmed from my impending departure. “It seems impossible to believe that in a week you will be in New York. From Cesenatico to New York – I can’t imagine a bigger change,” said my traveling companion. I sat and munched my olive and took a sip of prosecco. He was right. At that moment, New York was absolutely worlds away from Cesenatico.
We eventually found ourselves making our way back up the canal. A pair of sunglasses caught his eye, and as he tried them on I wandered a few steps and discovered a little fair on a tiny side street, so characteristic of Italy. Everywhere I turned this little street was dripping with charm – a candy-cane striped awning and a retro bike, a gelato shop that tempted my traveling companion, and knitted jellyfish hanging from a string tied to streetlights.
I followed the jellyfish hanging from the sky, one by one, to a small, quiet piazza, full of families and a few curious adults, officially stepping over any remaining line between tourist and resident. To my delight, there were nautical-inspired knittings livening up the ancient stone fountain, church, and doorways of the building facing the piazza, to match the hanging jellyfish.
Children played under trees decorated with diamonds and more jellyfish.
With a bit of internet research, I realized I had stumbled upon Cesenatico’s Urban Knitting Group “Il Mare in Conserva,” an installation art exhibit in the Piazzetta delle Conserve.
I was utterly charmed to so unexpectedly wander into this peaceful, simple world. I participated as an outsider, snapping photos of the happy children and cats, until realizing my travel companion had probably finished his gelato by now.
I reluctantly followed the jellyfish back, and found him happy as a clam (no pun intended), taking advantage of his phone’s data plan as the celebrations went on around him.
We made our way back to the car slowly, our departure marking a transition into a much more complicated world, void of knitted jellyfish and children playing jump-rope on the street. It had not been just another beach adventure. It was the end of an era of a naive American girl marveling in the oddities and delights of a beach life so different from my Southern California home. And the beginning of a mysterious something else.