Tag Archives: travel

Farewell to Assisi and Umbria (Lynn Kerstan)

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The long, lofty Uphill Walk to the Basilica of St. Francis, made beautiful by the pink-and-cream-colored granite.

To everyone’s relief, I’m sure, we’re nearly done with Assisi.

FYI, a number of movies have been made about the life of Saint Francis. In the evening after we returned to the hotel from visiting the town and the churches, we got to see one version. “Brother Sun, Sister Moon” was a 1972 film directed by Franco Zeffirelli, and it’s very long. The general response was, We Didn’t Like It. But there are some wonderful things in the film, including many locations of great beauty in Umbria.

A cypress tree stands like a sentinel as we look at a long-distance view.

Here’s a view of the countryside from the top of the hill. In the distance is a lake. Not many of those in Italy, and the only one I knew about was Lake Como, where George Clooney has a lovely home. I still can’t believe I was in Italy for three weeks and he never called or sent an e-mail.  Sigh.

Another scenic view, this one from the top of the Basilica.

 

Although the scenery and the gloriously beautiful landscape are amazing, I mostly loved the little, special treats that are around almost every corner. Some make no sense, some are just plain silly, and some are utterly delightful.

 

A common scene in a hill town.

 

 

 

 

Fountains like this were created whenever possible. Otherwise, water would have to be lugged up by–you guessed it–women.

 

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An artist  at work in the town of Assisi.

 

 

 

Wrought-iron art is common in the hill towns. Here, someone or something is trying to drive away a dragon.

We’re almost done with Tuscany, which was heavenly. Coming soon, we’ll head south to Sorrento and the land of Limoncello, which is utterly delicious. And to Naples, and Mount Vesuvius and Pompeii and the Isle of Capri and the Amalfi Coast. Italy is chock-full of wondrous things to see and experience.

But there are mysteries as well. This shop window in Assisi, with two piles of three rocks, escapes my understanding. Any guesses what it signifies?

Afoot and Apaw in Tuscany (Lynn Kerstan and Lonzo)

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The picture of Jesus is lovely and traditional. But the expression on the face of Mary’s statue is somewhat horrified.

When touring Italy, we inevitably found ourselves spending a lot of time in churches. The large cities like Florence and Sienna boast more than one enormous cathedral, and every small town is wrapped around its parish church. The people take great care of the places where they go to pray, and even tiny churches contain beautiful statues and paintings and tiles and mosaics. Most are very traditional, but now and again, an artist puts aside the expected traditional images and indulges in something unusual.

Lonzo does his best to organize the few scattered candles on the table.

After our trip to Spain, which is bejeweled with great houses of worship, Lonzo lost interest in seeing even more churches. But it’s my habit to provide a small donation and light a candle in every church I enter, so he reluctantly came along. In Pienza, we happened to arrive just as Sunday Mass was getting underway. A couple of kids noticed him and wanted to pet him, but their parents dragged them to another pew. They probably wondered what a woman of my age was doing with a toy leopard. I stuffed him in my purse.

Lonzo tries to decipher the symbols in the basilica of St. Francis, who would probably rather the church was kept simple and the money given to the poor.

Even the floors of churches can be works of art. This image is contained in the great basilica of Assisi. Every square inch of that church is covered with images. It’s worth a blog of its own, so I’ll save the pictures for some other week.

I’m not sure what this was meant to represent–probably St. Francis– but I really like it. Such joy in this picture!

Almost everywhere you look in Italy, you see fountains and statues, gardens and mosaics, some very small. If there was a small bare place, someone created something of beauty to fill it.

This is a tiny side-street with residences on both sides. it seems like each family made a point of turning it into a lovely, colorful place to live.

This is true in the smallest of towns and in the largest of cities. Between the great museums, the splendid basilicas, the glorious countryside, and the surprising art that appears everywhere to delight passes-by, it’s true to say that in Italy, there is nearly always something that calls you over to have a look. And causes you to look back over your shoulder when you have to leave.

I admit I’m a sucker for history, and seeing all these centuries-old towns was like tasting great champagne. Lavish beauty, simple beauty, natural beauty everywhere.

I need to go back to Italy.

 

Visit to a Tuscan Winery (Lynn Kerstan)

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Scores of barrels, many larger than these, were stacked in the centuries-old building.

As Pat will testify, I am fond of wine. Not a connoisseur, to be sure, because I’m happy with just about any sort of wine. Which meant that I couldn’t fully appreciate (although I greatly enjoyed) the visit to Fattoria del Colle, where truly fine wine is produced. What makes the winery even more special is this: It’s owned and managed by a woman, and so is the sommelier,  the taster who decides when a wine is ready to be bottled and sold. Pretty much unheard of in Italy and fine-wine circles, until Donatella Cinelli Colombina took charge. She decided to specialize in upscale wine, specifically Brunello. I’d never heard of it.

I wish I could remember the story attached to the picture. It’s based in the history of the estate many centuries ago. Clearly, someone is being rescued.

The first person to live on the property, centuries ago, was a hermit. Later, soldiers came to defend the 13th-century tower, now part of the structure. Much later, the Grand Duke of Tuscany used it as a secret romantic hideaway. A few centuries after that, an ancestor of the present owner built the estate in much its present form. Nowadays there’s a swimming pool, accommodations for weekend stays, cooking lessons, tastings of wine and olive oil, archery and weddings. Tour groups like ours are always welcome.

Another story I don’t know. Sorry. If someone else on the tour remembers it well enough, I’ll provide an update.

Two stories, probably legends, from the history of the estate are represented in a pair of fascinating paintings. I wound up standing in the back, where I could scarcely hear Donatella’s explanations, but she later assured me that they capture true stories passed down from the Middle Ages.

Everywhere we went, I saw fields of odd-looking supports for grapevines that will be attached as the season for growing grapes gets underway.

I was astounded by the many enormous, beautiful, polished barrels in which the wines were stored for aging. I was equally astonished by the field of odd-looking branches (?) which I had seen elsewhere as we drove through Tuscany. We were there in early March, and it was too soon for the vines to be planted and supported by the branch-thingies. No sign of a grape.

 

 

Our group enjoys a light lunch of bread, olive oil, cheese, and wine. Emphasis on the wine. I remember very little that happened after that.

After touring the main buildings, we settled in for wine tasting and a light meal of crusty bread topped with olive oil and three varieties of aged pecorino cheese to match the three glasses of wine. Everything was utterly delicious.

The Wall of Honor (for women only)

But alas, the excursion was coming to a close. We all staggered outside and saw metallic vats that probably had something to do with wine or, maybe, something else Fattoria del Colle’s was up to. I expected our bus would be drawn up and waited, but we were led to a wall with embossed tiles.

To honor women of achievement , Donatella established an award and presents it each year to the chosen winner. Each tile describes the reason the winner was chosen. Donatella and her business partner understand the barriers women too often face in business, politics, and life in general. Her own  success is testament that women can overcome obstacles and . When they do, everyone benefits. It’s a lesson most countries and people have yet to learn.

Italy: The Aftermath (Lynn Kerstan)

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For three whole weeks, all I had was a soft pillow to console me except when Thea was here. Poor Pitiful Me.

The downside of traveling is trying to get caught up after three-plus weeks of indulging myself. I’m not having much success. My suitcase remains partially unpacked, my dirty laundry sits in a basket, and just about every imaginable thing that needs doing remains undone. It doesn’t much matter. At the top of my priority list are obligations I committed to, business matters related to my books, and many Purr&Pet sessions with the cat. He was very well cared for by Thea, but she and John have two dogs and a splendid garden and more than plenty to do. Presently, despite his complaints, Monsieur le Comte is spending a lot of time on my lap.

In Italy, I saw very few cats, and I was looking for them. No surprise I saw none in Venice, where all those canals made the landscape unfriendly to felines. But one store specializing in athletic shoes has a glorious regard for cats and features a large cat statue in its front window. It’s a probably a tribute to a wonderful cat much loved by the owner. If you can’t read the name of the cat, it’s Dylan.

See what I mean about the canals?

There is something other-worldly about Venice. I didn’t take a wildly expensive gondola ride on the canals, but I spent a good deal of time on vaporettos, boats that operate much like busses and carry people around the lagoon and the Grand Canal. All very business-like. I just went where they went and got off the boat now and again when I spotted something of interest.

Like this.

I’ll say this much. I never saw so many naked statues in all my life as I did during three weeks in Italy.

In case you’re wondering, Lonzo the Leopard did accompany me, and he’ll be acting as guide in several upcoming posts. Including the ones that make him blush.

 

Most stores in Venice are stocked with tourist gee-gaws, and they all carry pretty much the same products. These stores must do pretty well, because solid land is scarce in Venice. The cost of a small business location is exorbitant.

While I was in Italy, I developed a virtue and a vice. A lover of salads, which I practically live on in spring and summer, I have always drenched the low-cal veggies with thick, creamy blue-cheese or ranch dressing, topping them off with toasted pecans, shredded parmesan cheese, and assorted other butt-padding ingredients. But in Tuscany, I discovered the lovely taste of simple red wine and vingar to dress a salad, and that’s what I’m having for supper tonight. In a later blog, I’ll provide the recipe for limoncello.

The entrance to the Grand Canal

 

 

 

First Stop in Italy: Venice (Lynn Kerstan)

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Evening in Venice

Ah, Venice. I was there only a few days, but it seemed I’d landed on another planet. When our flight landed, we and our luggage were loaded onto shuttles and delivered to the waterfront where tourists and bags were shuffled onto water taxis. Venice grows mysteriously out of a lagoon, and boats are the only way to get there. Vaporettos (small boats) carry citizens and tourists from one shoreline stop to another, rather like a watery bus system. The beautifully appointed gondolas are pretty much reserved for tourists and locals celebrating a special event.

Naturally I began my visit by getting lost. Julia, our Tour Leader, had suggested we meet after lunch at the very small hotel where we were staying. From there she would lead us to the Rialto Bridge, a place I had longed to visit. But noontime came and went, and I couldn’t find the hotel. I had a map, but I still couldn’t find it.

Gondolas in Waiting

The most findable place in Venice, Piazza San Marco, was very near our hotel. It’s a landmark for everyone, especially glassy-eyed tourists. But there were many ways out of the Piazza, including vaporettos. In search of my hotel, I took every exit but the right one and ended up wandering hither and yon for about five hours. I kept winding up in the same places, none of which were the Hotel San Marco. I went into other hotels, showed them my map, and asked for directions. They did their best, but I still managed to make wrong turns. My utter lack of a sense of direction probably explains why I prefer escorted tours. They take me places I want to see, tell me what I’m looking at, and speak the local language.

Piazza San Marco (a small part of it)

You won’t be surprised to learn that my hotel was precisely eighteen steps from the Piazza, including a small bridge across a small canal. I just needed to find the right small tunnel, the one that led to the bridge I needed. Anyway, I missed the tour to the Rialto, and went on getting lost day after day.

There are no cars in Venice. Everything has to be transported by people or small wagons pulled by people. The “roads” (more like stone-paved paths) are narrow. If I held out both arms, I could plant my palms against the store windows. One morning I got off the elevator and saw the tiny hotel lobby stacked with large bags of laundry. Stacks taller than I was. On the street was a cart, and a guy had already loaded it with heavy laundry bags. He was jumping up and down on the laundry, trying to make room for some of the bags still in the hotel. When he gave up, he set off down the street, pulling the cart his own self. This is how supplies are delivered to hotels and restaurants and stores throughout Venice.

One of many, many tourist stores on the Piazza. Lots of restaurants as well, with tables and chairs for outdoor dining.

I’ll be sharing the glories of Venice as well, but I was mostly fascinated by the quirky elements. Where I was staying, snuggled up to the famous Piazza San Marco, the Doges’ Palace, and other sightseeing wonders, I got distracted by the narrow roads and small businesses that lined them. Restaurants. Bars. Wine stores. Merchants ranging from Ralph Loren to tacky souvenir shops, and some nice ones as well. I lived on pizza, sandwiches, and gelato (ice cream) served up by a handsome merchant near my hotel.

Formerly a prison, now a Hilton Hotel.

But I was also on a mission. Lord Byron, an English Regency-era guy as addicted to travel as I am, lived for a time in Venice. My Tour Leader helped me pinpoint the palacio on the Grand Canal, and I boated past it on a vaporetto, trying to take a picture But I couldn’t tell precisely which palacio (they’re all melded together like town houses) was his. The Tour Leader checked it out and said the palacio was currently scaffolded by workers restoring the place. So I have a picture, however scaffolded, for when I put the Duke and Duchess of Sarne in Venice a couple years from now, the last book in the “Dangerous” trilogy.

Pigeon-feeding in San Marco Piazza

Next time, I’ll post pictures and stories about some of the most magnificent and fascinating places in Venice. Ciao for now.

Home Again (Lynn Kerstan)

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Thank You, Thea, for taking care of me. If nothing else, I learned the meaning of “Dolce fa niente.” My Italian spelling is probably wrong, but cats know the true meaning of “Sweet it is to do nothing.”

So here I am, back from three weeks in Italy. I brought with me a lot of pictures, a small amount of retained information I found interesting and quickly forgot, and gazillions of memories. In the next few weeks, with pictures and information at the ready, I’ll take you on the trip with me. Meantime, I’ve got the worst and longest cold I ever had. Those Italian cold germs are powerful critters. I still haven’t unpacked, and if I don’t do laundry very soon (which requires a trip to the laundromat), I shall be the Nekkid  Traveler.

Here are a few things I know for sure: All Italian Drivers are crazy. Doesn’t matter what they drive. Car, truck, motorcycle, bicycle, or bus can be equally terrifying. There are many cliffs with hairpin curves that scared the devil outa me, but our bus drivers were very good. For some reason, they all seemed to be named Pepe or Bepe. I presume they were trying to maintain anonymity, in case they drove off a hairpin.

Hills on top of hills in Tuscany, a place of surpassing beauty with a lovely grove of olive trees.

In Italy, all hills (there are many of them) go Up. I expect they go down as well, but after climbing to those high Tuscan hill towns and exploring them, the only thought in my head was “Please send me a water-slide.”

It rains in Italy. Probably because I prayed for a water-slide. My collapsible umbrella collapsed altogether the first time I used it. But the large, inexpensive Italian brolly did just fine. In the time I was there, it rained  four or five days, but that didn’t stop us from going where we were intended to go.

It is possible to eat large portions of pizza, pasta, and gelato for three weeks without gaining weight. The up-hill phenomenon is probably responsible.

Another hill town. From early times, people sought the high ground to protect themselves.

I fell in love with a cordial called Limoncella, which is not for wimps. Some locals provided a recipe, and I intend to try my hand at brewing some. It sounds easy: only four ingredients, one of which is water. Will share it with you if my first batch turns out okay.

Monsieur le Comte de Sevigny was suitably glad to see me when I arrived home, but not before startling me with a primal yowl that expressed his opinion of me leaving him Home Alone for so long. Mind you, Thea took excellent care of him as she always does, with plenty of petting and combing, so all is well at Chez Lymond.

Until next Friday, Arrivederci!

 

 

 

Ciao to the Can Opener (Lymond de Sevigny)

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Calling all cat and dog lovers. We pets have much to say!

Warm greetings to all my loyal fans. Living alone with the Can-Opener sometimes leaves me isolated when she goes traveling, and she’s packing even as I write this. But not to worry. Thea is on the job. Next week, the C-0 will set out to Italy for something called a “month.” In Thea’s care, I will be fine, although I shall miss the traditional “Pet and Purr” sessions with the C-O every morning.

Because she is the one who posts my blogs, and her own, I’ve been worried about a “Cone of Silence” here at StoryBroads. It’s my second-favorite place (the pillow on the C-O’s footstool near the space heater is best), so in her absence, I decided to make sure the Friday blog remains a “happening place.”

This Border Collie will tell you why he is a Very Lucky Pooch.

So . . . I put out the word to other cats and dogs who have authors for can-openers, and they immediately pounced on the opportunity to write about their lives and experiences. They are much more interesting than humans. Stay tuned for the next few weeks, because we pets have a lot to share with you.

The C-O is not taking her computer to Italy, but she intends to Tweet her friends and fans and followers whenever there is WiFi. Well, assuming that her sister, traveling with her, can teach her how to use her iPod Touch. If you’d like to share the Italy adventure, follow her at:

@LynnKerstan and/or @RegencyTwisters

This is Lonzo the Leopard, who went to Spain with my C-O last year. He’s going to Italy as well. and will be featured in many pictures. He packs more easily than I do, not to mention he doesn’t require a littler box or food and water bowls.

When she returns, expect an avalanche of pictures…if she can figure out how to use her new camera. Technology is not her strong suit.

Meantime, don’t miss the dog blogs and cat calls posted here while the C-O is gone. She’s not really necessary, not while she has friends with pets who can translate Arfs and Meows into human speak. We have more to say than you can imagine.

Why Venice, Why Now (Lynn Kerstan)

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You gotta like these people, floating around on St. Mark’s Square in winter, having a good old time. They are either stalwart Venetians or tourists who’ve had a little too much wine.

Yes, it’s an utterly unique city chock-full of history, beauty, tradition, and mystery. La Serenissima, it is called. The Most Serene, long a center of trade, often a conqueror, situated on 118 islands in a lagoon. One month from now, I will be there. Venice sometimes experiences Acqua Alta–high water–so we were advised to bring waterproof shoes. After seeing this picture taken last November, I don’t think shoes will be enough. Aren’t those people cold?

Here’s Venice on a nice day for tourists. This is the Grand Canal, and that distinctive landmark is the Rialto Bridge, rebuilt in this form in 1588. There are 400 bridges in Venice, most of them crossing small canals.

All along, I assumed that Venice drew me like a powerful magnet because no other city is anything like it. Who wouldn’t want to experience that wondrous legacy, a World Heritage site, a city without any cars!

 

Last week I received an email from a reader who asked if the third book of my “Dangerous” trilogy would ever be published. She wanted to know what happened to the protagonists, and rightly so. I assured her that the first two books would be reissued by Bell Bridge Books, and that I would write “Dangerous Betrayals” to wind up the series. Little, barely audible bells began to chime in my head, calling me to something I ought to remember.

An aerial view of Venice and some of its islands. A causeway and railroad tracks connect the mainland and the city. All other transportation is by boat or feet.

And then I did. Julia, Duchess of Sarne, rejected by her beleaguered husband, had been born in Venice. Really. It was a small detail in a novella that I wrote for an anthology, a story about how they met, a story that introduced (after I’d written two of the books) all the major characters. I’d forgotten all about it. There was no particular reason I can think of to have her whelped in Venice, but she was. And now I know why. A large portion of “Dangerous Betrayals” will be set there.

It’s strange, so many things coming together all at once. The subconscious mind is amazing. Stephen King calls it the Boys in the Basement, producing ideas and sending them on up to him. We female writers call it the Girls in the Attic, and my Girls are verrrry busy these days, lighting fires and creating storylines I haven’t yet imagined. Sometimes, it’s wondrous to be a writer. We get to live so many lives.

When in Rome (Lynn Kerstan)

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The springtime countryside in Tuscany.

I can’t help it. Travel has been my obsession for nearly all my life, and on my upcoming trip, I’ll be visiting a place I last saw in the late ’60s. I’d applied for and received a grad student scholarship to study Shakespeare for a month in Stratford-upon-Avon.  Yippee! The deal included a B&B room and dinner as well, but I had to buy my own plane ticket. A neighbor I hardly knew loaned me $300 (a lot of money back then) so I booked a cheap flight on Icelandic Airlines and off I went.

England was great, but things got even better when a fellow student asked if I wanted to join him and his friend on a driving trip in Europe. Of course I did. Free transportation and good company, although they stayed at Hilton hotels while I bunked in at youth hostels. Ever since, I have longed to explore Tuscany in northern Italy.  We drove straight through it to Rome, and it was gloriously beautiful. I resolved that I would come back someday, because it had captured my heart. On the third of March, many decades later, my promise to myself will be fulfilled.

The Roman forum, what remains of it.

Rome was the driver’s final destination, so he dropped me off in a neighborhood that had a lot of cheap pensions and I never saw him or his friend again. Alone in Rome, I bought a map and wandered the streets and explored the major sights. Colosseum, check. Fountains (three  coins deposited there, of course). It was in the Roman forum that a pleasant-faced, good-looking young man struck up a conversation. I didn’t understand Italian, so he tried French, which I didn’t understand, either. At first, I assumed he was trying to pick me up. I don’t remember his name, and to this day, I don’t know what he really had in mind when he first approached me. But he spent the next three days congenially showing me the sights. That included a double feature of Italian western movies, very popular at the time, because he assumed I’d enjoy them

The staircase inside the dome. Round and round we go.

He was equally happy to escort me to Vatican City and insisted that we climb the dome of St. Peter’s Cathedral. That incident is permanently engraved on my memory. From a distance, it didn’t seem terribly large, and there was a primitive elevator to grind its way to the place where the actual Dome began. Oh, my heavens. Round and round we went on a narrow, seeming endless staircase. There was a parallel staircase winding the other direction for our descent. I was a trouper back them, game for almost anything, so I made the Very Long Climb. “You can see almost all of Rome from the balcony,” someone had told me when I started up the stairs.

The dome of St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City

Those who know me are aware of my primal fear of edges. Not height itself, but a scary place where I could possibly fall off. Like, for instance, a curb. Circling the Dome of St. Peter’s was a small balcony about two feet wide, with a wrought-iron decorative fence about a foot high. The moment I exited the staircase, I knew I was not meant to be on that balcony. I leaned back, spreadeagled, against the dome itself, eyes squeezed shut and heart beating like the hooves of horses in an Italian Western movie.

“All Rome at our feet,” said a British woman in an awestruck voice. I wouldn’t know. I glimpsed the Papal Gardens directly below us, mustered some courage, and risked a glimpse of the horizon. Sure enough, that brief view of the smoggy brown city remains imprinted on my memory.

A view of the Vatican Museum from the Dome

My sister, who is traveling with me for most of the upcoming trip, has signed on to spend five days there at the end. Not I. Been there, done that. And I will have one day in that very special city, which will bring back good memories of practically having the Vatican Museum and the Sistine Chapel all to myself one afternoon, and the sweetness of a lovely young Italian man who introduced me to his beloved Rome.

 

 

Current Non-Events (Lynn Kerstan)

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The picture of Lymond de Sevigny is only because he is annoyed with me, as any smart cat  would be. In this case, it’s because I cleaned his ears. But he also wishes I’d get my act together. So do I!

Short post tonight. Sorry. Nothing personal. I’m leagues behind in Stuff-I-Have-To-Do. I haven’t even found time to take down my Christmas tree. Or mail Christmas gifts to wonderful friends. Or stick with my Firm Determination to walk several miles every day so that I won’t get to Italy in March with no stamina whatever.

I did enjoy a few walks at the San Diego Zoo in the last few days, and another beach walk here in Coronado. But those were pitiful efforts. I must do better, starting tomorrow. (How often I have lied to myself about starting “tomorrow?”)

But I will. The San Diego Zoo has just released a new panda cub into the Panda Exhibit, although he is only there in the mornings. My “power walks” occur late afternoon, when I won’t be tripping over tourists enjoying one of the best zoos in the world. But thinking about our new panda cub reminded me of the first time I ever saw a panda.

There are many bears of various kinds in this world, but for some reason, pandas really appeal to humans.

It was the early 1980’s, and I was a tourist on one of the first-ever tours of China. Pandas hadn’t yet made their way to the USA, so it was a really big deal to have a chance of seeing one. We were in Fuzhou (sounds like Fuchiou) at a small zoo on a very cold February day. To honor the American Visitors, the zoo was eager to show us a new panda cub. The “cage” was large and filled with climbing trees and fun things for a young panda to enjoy.

But it was Really Cold—did I mention that?—and when the panda cub was shuttled out of the wooden enclosure to entertain the eager guests, he was Not Happy. First thing he did was clamber up the wooden enclosure to get back in where he had been pushed out. He looked frantic, really, clinging to the wall with what must have been sharp claws. We all felt sorry for him, but didn’t want to insult the zoo-keepers who were trying to please us.

So, I appointed myself Head Honcho of the Group and told them the poor, miserable panda cub would not be allowed back into his warm winter lodgings until we got ourselves outa there. So we did, looking back from a distance as a portal opened and the panda scrambled into its enclosure. I thought I had a picture to show you, but when I went through my picture file, nah. There’s a note that Fuzhou didn’t allow pictures, though. Still very much Mao rule, although he’d died a few months earlier. Back then, all the people older than toddlers wore “Mao” suits of blue or brown. Only the littlest kids could wear bright colors. Very strange times.

Just getting off the bus in a small village in China! made me a center of attention. I have never been so popular!

But on my second trip to China two years later, the “color” rule had changed. So had many other things, but there were still very few tourists in China. This picture from 1984 shows the usual “football huddle” that ensued whenever a tourist set foot off the bus.