European Adventure 2011–Paris, Day One

25 Jun

When I left the hotel in Amsterdam this morning, it was (surprise!) raining again.  I took a cab to the train station, but the cab driver wouldn’t or couldn’t take me all the way to the actual entrance of the station, so I had to schelp my stuff about a block in the rain.  I really wanted wet shoes on a three and a half hour train ride.  I truly did.  Other than that, though, the train was uneventful, so I was completely unprepared for the complete chaos that was Paris. 

My bags at this point in the trip are really freaking heavy; they’ve been getting a bit heavier each day with the stuff I’m collecting.  So rather than haul my bags up and down the steps of the Metro, I waited in a loooong taxi line.  But when I finally got in a taxi, he took me about halfway to my hotel before pulling to the side of the road and telling me repeatedly that it was impossible.  Impossible may be the most obnoxious word with a French accent.  Eeemposseeeble.  So mocking.  But honestly, the cab driver didn’t deserve the pissiness that I piled on him; it truly was impossible.  Apparently, I booked a hotel right on the Pride route, and all the streets were closed.  So I was stuck hauling my bags up and down the Metro steps after all, and just to salt my wound, I came up the steps on the wrong side of the street.  In order to get to my hotel, I had to CROSS THE PRIDE PARADE with a massive suitcase and a giant backpack.  I wish someone had been filming it. 

Obviously, by the time I reached the hotel, I was pretty pissed.  I had a lot of time to think about it during my trek, and I concluded that I was really angry at the hotel.  It certainly would have been nice if they’d sent an email letting me know about the event and the street closures.  So when I checked in, and the desk clerk asked, “So was it difficult to get to the hotel?,” I came very close to reaching over the desk and slapping him.  Yeah.  It was difficult.  I was especially angry because I love Pride, and I didn’t want to be irritated about it.  But seriously, it was obnoxious. 

I rested for a bit to the sounds of Katy Perry and Lady Gaga coming through the window before braving the streets again.  The parade had largely past by this point, though, and I really had to applaud my precise timing.  I had dinner reservations near the Eiffel Tower, so I Metroed over to that general area.  As an aside, the last time I came to Paris, I was 20 and completely confounded by the subway.  Now I’ve been on trains in New York, DC, Boston, Chicago, Barcelona, London, Brussels, etc., and I feel very happy to be able to zip around the city so much more easily than I did seven years ago.

I popped into the Musee Rodin just about an hour before it closed; it’s small enough that an hour is plenty of time to see all of the permanent collection.  This was my first time at the museum, and I really loved it.  There’s a beautiful garden that holds many of Rodin’s most famous sculptures; you can visit the garden for just one euro.  To the left is a photo of The Thinker and the Eiffel Tower–very well placed, that statue is.  It’s worth paying for the museum, too, though, to see sculptures such as The Kiss (rather disturbing to watch a six-year-old photographing that one). 

After the museum closed, I walked to the Eiffel Tower.  I didn’t  have time to go up before my dinner reservations, but I sat in the grass for about an hour and people-watched.  Seeing the annoying men hocking miniature Eiffel Towers run from the cops was particularly entertaining. 

Dinner tonight was at Il Vino, a really unusual restaurant where you select wine for each course instead of food.  The food brought out is designed to pair best with the wine, and it’s a surprise to the diner.  I opted for the four-course Tour of France tasting menu, but before that began, I had a glass of champagne with a somewhat forgettable amuse bouche–some type of green foam with zucchini and fish infused with Earl Grey.  The first course was a light, crisp white wine paired with white asparagus pieces sitting in a green asparagus puree, which was clever, but it could have used some more flavor.  The second course was a more substantial chardonnay with sea bream prepared two ways, seared and raw as sushi.  As I said yesterday, fish isn’t my favorite, so I was surprised at how delicious I thought this course was.  The sushi pieces were especially tasty.  There was a slight delay before the next course, so one of the waiters came by to refill my wine.  The service throughout the night was excellent.  Then we moved to red wine and a yummy lamb course.  The lamb was a bit more done than I would have liked, but it was very flavorful.  Finally, there was dessert wine with a strawberry and cream concoction with rhubarb ice cream and (because one dessert just isn’t enough) a sort of side dessert with a pastry and cherries.  Both desserts were very good, though I was honestly a bit confused by the big and small dessert concept–not that I’m fighting it.  My favorite sweet thing, though, came with the check; they brought a small plate of bites, which included a fantastic strawberry-basil macaron.  I love savory desserts.  Despite the difficulty I had getting to the hotel, Paris–my final city of the trip–is off to an excellent start.

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European Adventure 2011–Amsterdam, Day Three

24 Jun

I woke up at nine, and it was pouring–thunder, lightning, the whole bit.  So I rolled over and went back to sleep.  When I got up again, it was still raining, but it had slowed to a drizzle.  So I pulled myself out of bed and walked to the book market, which is held in the Spui square every Friday.  Obviously accustomed to rain, each vendor was ensconced in her or his own little tent, and I spent a happy hour or so browsing.  There were plenty of English language books, but most of them were fairly boring paperback editions, travel guides, etc.  There were some cool-looking older books in Dutch, but yeah, I don’t speak Dutch.  Or read it.  So I walked away empty-handed.  If I were an expat living in Amsterdam, though, that would be an awesome place to stock up each week. 

I then headed to the western part of the city, the half I didn’t explore yesterday.  I had reservations at the Anne Frank House at 3:15, and my big plan was to wander the surrounding neighborhood until then.  Luckily, I picked an excellent neighborhood in which to wander.  The area called Nine Streets is filled with little boutiques, most of them containing vintage or new-but-looks-old items.  I popped in and out of stores, charmed by the quiet of the area, the houseboats on the canal (see left), and the distinct lack of coffee shops. 

–An interjection.  I have nothing against weed in theory, and I think it should be legal if alcohol is.  However, I personally am not a fan.  And I’ve been finding it a little jarring to be walking down a street at like 11 AM and be suddenly overwhelmed with the unmistakable smell.  So just to answer the question I know you’ve all been asking yourselves, no, I didn’t smoke weed in Amsterdam.  And I don’t mean that in the Bill Clinton sense.  Nor did I eat a brownie.  Not because I thought it was wrong, but just because it didn’t seem like a super fun thing to do by myself.  And the people who hang out at those places aren’t really the types of people I want to make friends with.  Moving on.–

So the highlight of my morning, as dorky as it sounds, was that I finally found a teapot.  It’s really cute, very brightly colored with painted flowers all over it.  I would show you a picture, but the woman wrapped it up in like twelve layers of paper.  The shop itself was adorable, too, with a mixture of new and old household items and kitschy things like vintage lunchboxes.

I went to The Pancake Bakery for lunch, where I almost wished that I was stoned or that I had about ten other people with me.  There was a truly dizzying array of pancakes to choose from.  Sweet or savory?  Traditional or fancy?  Too. many. options.  I wound up satisfying my savory craving with an appetizer bowl of French onion soup and then ordering a sweet specialty pancake that had apples baked in and came with cinnamon ice cream.  Though I should have known, I was not quite prepared for the pancake to be the size of a large dinner plate (see right).  I ate about half of it, though, which I think is a pretty impressive amount.  It was seriously delicious, but really, there was no way I could finish it.

Shortly after lunch, it was time for the Anne Frank House.  I was glad I’d booked my ticket in advance because the line was every bit as long as the guidebooks promised it would be.  Walking through the house is heartwrenching.  You start in the public areas and move up towards the annex where Anne Frank and her family lived.  In almost every room there’s an accompanying video and explanatory notes.  The rooms are unfurnished, at Otto Frank’s request, but the room where Anne Frank lived has pictures on the wall of celebrities and such that she cut out and posted to make the room cheerier.  The rooms past the annex tell you what happened to the family after their hideout was discovered and how the museum came to be, and the final room shows Anne’s original diary and samples of other writing that she did in the annex.  By the gift shop there’s an exhibit about contemporary issues related to tolerance, free speech, etc. that shows a short video and lets people vote on the issue; it’s such an interesting expansion on the theme.  I was very impressed with the way the museum was put together, and I was very moved. 

I was in a sad/slow/contemplative mood afterwards, so I took a long meander back to the hotel and spent a couple hours resting and packing (always packing and unpacking) before a very special final dinner in Amsterdam.  I had to take a taxi to the outskirts of the city; De Kas is located in Frankendael Park.  There’s a greenhouse attached to the restaurant where they grow most of their own produce, and the dining room is almost all windows–very light and bright (see pic at left).  The food, as you would expect, was incredibly fresh-tasting, starting with the most amazing pesto that they brought out with the bread.  They do a set menu with no choices, though they do ask if you have any allergies or if there’s anything you really dislike.  Being the adventurous sort (I like to think so at least), I let them bring me whatever.  The meal began with three appetizers that were all presented at once.  I would have preferred if they’d come out one at a time, but they tasted incredible.  There was ravioli with very crisp peas and beans, a flaky pastry with tomatoes, a seared scallop, and a vanilla cream, and leeks with squash.  Everything was accented with edible flowers.  The main course was a white fish, bone-in, covered in a lobster sauce with mashed potatoes and a simple green salad.  Fish definitely wouldn’t have been my preference for the main course, so that may be the reason I thought it was good but not great.  Dessert was excellent, though–a simple yellow cake with fresh cherries and ice cream.  The cherry they placed on top was so big and ripe that it was almost like a plum.  De Kas is a very different kind of restaurant, not for the picky, but I really enjoyed it. 

I was a bit worried about getting home, since there wasn’t a taxi stand, and it was about an hour’s walk.  After I’d walked for about fifteen minutes, though, I managed to hail a cab and get back to my hotel quickly and easily.

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European Adventure 2011–Amsterdam, Day Two

23 Jun

So I woke up this morning, got ready, and set out for the Red Light District–an odd choice for a morning’s walk, I know.  But a) I wanted to see it for myself, b) I absolutely did not want to see it at night, and c) Fodor’s said there was a good bakery there.  My logic is flawless, I know.  Turns out the bakery next door to the bakery that Fodor’s recommended smelled far more delicious, so I grabbed a ham and cheese croissant, butter cake with vanilla sauce, and a latte there. 

Latte in hand, I walked towards De Oude Kerk, or The Old Church.  The Dutch are so good at naming things.  I turned the corner and saw a beautiful church straight ahead of me, a coffee shop to my right (coffee shop=weed; cafe=actual coffee), and prostitutes’ windows to my left.  More than a little disconcerting.  I listened to a family as they spotted the windows; the mom told her teenage son he could “just walk by and look and then walk back.”  I was amused but also upset that these women were basically like zoo creatures.  I knew I was just as bad for wanting to see, though I hoped I was being slightly less conspicuous. 

I was ready to leave, but the only way out was further in, it seemed.  I found myself walking down a narrow alley lined with windows on either side.  Many of the women were pressed up against the glass in their lingerie; some were knocking against the glass.  Though I’m sure it was largely in my imagination, the men walking towards me looked slightly menacing. 

I felt relieved when I escaped the Red Light District and suddenly very sad.  Theoretically, I’m for the legalization and regulation of prostitution only because I know that it will happen whether it’s legal or not, and government regulation is the best way to keep the women safe.  But seeing it is another matter, and pragmatics aside, scantily-clad women (only women) for sale in windows just felt like the ultimate objectification.  In related news, a couple blocks later, a guy whistled and made some dumb comment about how I was looking good or whatever, and I think he was stunned by the stream of profanity he got in return.   

I spent the rest of the day at small museums.  My first stop was the Rembrandthuis, where they’d recreated Rembrandt’s primary residence in Amsterdam.  (He went bankrupt at some point and had to downsize.)  It was pretty fun; I enjoy seeing old furnishings and such.  Box beds, for instance, look unbelievably cozy to me.  They also had an etching demonstration in one room, where someone demonstrated the process of making plates, coating them in ink, and rolling them through a press.

Next, I went to the Museum Willet-Holthuysen, a seventeenth-century canal house that was left to the city to be turned into a museum in 1895.  It retains the late nineteenth-century furnishings and art collection.  There’s not a ton to see here, but as you can probably tell, I enjoy seeing how other people live or used to live.  The gardens were very nice (see left). 

My favorite museum of the day, though, was the Tassen Museum, which houses the world’s largest collection of handbags.  It sounds dumb, I know, and I was a little embarassed about going in there.  But it was really very interesting.  The exhibit is arranged chronologically, so it began with the tidbit that interior pockets weren’t invented until the seventeenth century, so everyone had to carry some sort of bag.  They had all kinds of specialty bags on display, such as gaming purses with flat bottoms to sit on tables that were popular in Elizabethan England.  I loved the special purpose bags, such as the opera bag which came with special compartments perfectly sized for opera glasses and a program.  As the exhibit moved forward in time, they showed bags made from different materials and by different designers, including both classics like the Hermes Kelly bag and more unusual creations like a bag shaped like a cruise ship.  I stopped in the bright, lovely cafe and got a snack: a perfect little goat cheese sandwich with apple slices and honey.  Even the bathroom was charming; they put handbags in every stall (see right).  And I was happy to see that they had handbags for sale in the gift shop.  There’s nothing more annoying than looking at fashion and not being able to buy any.  I realized the last time I moved, though, that I have more handbags than I could ever possibly carry, so I didn’t buy one.  I did, however, buy a green leather dinosaur keychain.  Rawr.

While I was going to all of these places, I was basically making a giant half-circle around the eastern part of Amsterdam, so naturally, I snapped a few pictures along the way.  To the left you have your obligatory canal shot.  To the right is the coolest doorknob I have ever seen.  Below is a close-up of an amazing gable. 

 

 

 

After a little afternoon rest, I went back out for dinner.  I hadn’t made reservations, and after my massive walk, I didn’t feel like going too far, so I opted for Cafe de Koe, just a few blocks from my hotel.  The menu was in Dutch, so I could only read about half of it, but my waitress very kindly read it to me.  I started with one of the best salads I’ve ever had.  I’m not a salad person, in general, but this one was arugula with sundried tomatoes, fontina cheese, and pine nuts, covered in what tasted and appeared to be only the best parts of bacon, with a truffle vinaigarette.  All of this added up to salty, savory goodness.  My main course was veal with roasted potatoes.  The veal was a bit overcooked/dry, but the flavor of the sauce was very good.  I walked home in the bright light of 11 PM, much happier with my second day in Amsterdam than my first.

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European Adventure 2011–Amsterdam, Day One

22 Jun

Today was a frustrating day.  And there are no pictures, so I apologize in advance. 

I didn’t sleep very well last night, which will happen when you mix wine and beer, so I was a bit slow getting started in the morning.  I had to make the 10:18 train to Antwerp to catch my pre-reserved train to Amsterdam, and I checked out of the hotel at about 9:45.  The first cab company the front desk woman called had a thirty minute wait (egads), but the next company said they’d be there in ten.  So I waited impatiently, tapped my foot for the duration of the quick drive to the train station, and sighed my way through the line to buy a ticket.  (The Bruges station, fortunately, is significantly less complicated than the Brussels station.)  Finally, I made it on the platform with about eight minutes to spare.  Way to go, team. 

My train rides to Amsterdam were largely uneventful, aside from a woman announcing that her laptop had just been stolen.  I spent the rest of the trip clutching my forty-pound backpack like it was an extraordinarily heavy newborn. 

When I got to the train station, I was stunned by the number of bikes I saw piled outside; there seemed to be literally thousands.  It’s one of those things that you have to see to believe.  I’d read that people in Amsterdam liked to ride their bikes around.  I didn’t picture that translating into THIS many bikes. 

My room wasn’t ready when I got there (the Eden Amsterdam American) at about 2:15.  Check-in time wasn’t until 3, so I couldn’t really complain, but I did wonder what miracle was going to take place in the hotel in the next forty-five minutes.  I took a few minutes in the lobby to organize myself, and then I headed to the Van Gogh Museum.  I didn’t have myself oriented correctly, though, and I ended up walking the wrong way and circling around for a bit, so the walk took longer than it should have.

Other than that, the museum was the one highlight in an otherwise dreary day; it was very well done.  I overheard many of the patrons expressing disappointment when they learned that The Starry Night is actually housed back in New York at the MOMA, but um…I already knew that, and there’s more than enough here.  I’m much more familiar with Van Gogh than Magritte, but I was surprised by how much I didn’t know.  I had no idea that he’d painted for such a short time–just ten years, with painting being sort of a midlife career change that he jumped into wholeheartedly.  I was very interested to see his progression from a very dark, realistic style to the distinctive style we all recognize as Van Gogh.  I also learned some fun, cocktail party sort of trivia, such as the fact that Van Gogh painted his sunflower series to decorate the guest room when Gaugin came to visit. 

The museum also had several special exhibits about restoration and new technology.  One room showed how they’d found paintings under paintings in several of his works, and how his different approaches to cleaning a canvas (or not, as the case may be) affected the final product.  Another room showed the restoration work they’d done on the famous Bedroom piece.  A separate section of the museum covered the work he’d done in Antwerp and Paris and showed how intensive study had led to new dating and categorization of many of his works.  All in all, the museum created a very in-depth experience, which I thoroughly enjoyed. 

 But when it was time to leave the museum, I discovered that it was pouring.  I waited inside for ten minutes, and it let up a bit.  So I decided to start walking, but within minutes it was raining just as heavily as before.  The only upside to the rain is that there weren’t as many damn bikers.  After just a couple short hours in Amsterdam, I’d already been almost mangled by at least five bicycles.  They have their own paths here, but they don’t always like to stick to them.  And bicyclists definitely rank above pedestrians in the pecking order.  Amsterdam also doesn’t seem to be very found of crosswalks or stoplights or things of that nature.  It’s a bit perilous. 

So I was glad that the streets were safer, but by the time I’d made it back to the hotel, I was drenched–freezing cold with rainwater-filled shoes.  I approached the front desk and asked for my key, and the clerk told me my room wasn’t ready.  And this is when I started to lose it.  Just a teensy bit.  “It’s FIVE,” I informed him.  He told me he understood, but the room wasn’t ready.  That was not exactly the answer I was looking for.  “No, I don’t think you do understand,” I said.  “It’s five p.m., and your check-in time is three.  I’m soaking wet, and I want to go to my room.  So you will find another room of equal or greater stature, or you will comp my first night.  Period.”  He left to talk to his supervisor, and after a few minutes, lo and behold, my room was ready after all.  So I achieved the desired end result, but my hackles were up. 

I unpacked what needed to be unpacked, changed into dry gear, rested a bit, and went back out at around seven to go to dinner.  I was tired and still didn’t have a good sense of Amsterdam geography, so I decided to grab a taxi to dinner.  I get in the cab and ask the driver to take me to Nieumarkt, which is a big square in central Amsterdam (read: not obscure).  The driver seems confused.  I think maybe it’s my crappy Dutch pronunciation, so I pull out my map and show him what I’m talking about.  He is still confused.  I tell him that if he doesn’t know where he’s going, I need to be in another cab.  He says no, no, it’s fine.  He drives in completely the opposite direction and asks to see my map again.  Apparently, the square is not in his GPS system, so after five minutes, he plugs in the name of a nearby street.  He starts driving, and after awhile he stops and says, “Ok, we’re here.”  I start to get really pissy and ask him where HERE is because I can still see the train station, and I can tell from my map that the square is about a kilometer from the station.  So he rolls down his window and asks someone and starts driving again.  Then he asks someone else.  Then I lose it and tell him we’re done, give him the ridiculous 13 euro fare with no tip (probably one of the only times in my life I haven’t tipped someone) and walk the rest of the way. 

So I get to the restaurant, Cafe Bern (no website), very ready for some cheese fondue, their specialty.  However, when I tell the hostess my name, she flatly informs me that I’m late, and I have no table.  I apologize, give an abbreviated version of the cabdriver saga, and point out that I’m only 12 minutes late, and since I’m just one person, my meal goes by much more quickly because there’s no chatting.  (It’s true.)  She tells me I can sit at the bar.  So I sit at the bar and order a glass of wine, but I have my heavy, still slightly damp purse in my lap, there are at least six empty tables in the restaurant, and with each person who bumps into me as they walk past, I can feel my last shards of cool slipping away.  Finally, I snap, tear up, and get up and go outside. 

Not that it’s anything to cry over, obviously.  But on a trip of this length and this magnitude, at least one minor meltdown is inevitable.  I’m tired, and I don’t speak the ever-changing language, and for the most part I’m by myself, and it’s all super fun, but sometimes it is also hard.  That’s just how traveling is. 

After a few minutes, the hostess comes out and asks if everything’s ok and says that (again, lo and behold) she’s found a table for me after all.  So I sit and eat my fondue, which is good, but (I swear this isn’t bitterness talking) is about the same as what you can get at the Melting Pot or any other fondue restaurant in America.  I’m out of the restaurant faster than any of the other tables around me who were seated long before me, and I’m feeling a little “so there” about the whole situation.

I opted to walk back to the hotel for obvious reasons, and during the course of the thirty-minute walk, I calmed down a bit.  The breeze felt nice after the crowded restaurant, I found my way without too much trouble, and I saw a truly astounding number of bookshops.  So I think Amsterdam and I are going to be ok, and if this is the worst time I have on my trip, I’ll consider myself lucky.  But today was definitely the low point so far.  Fingers crossed for a happier post tomorrow.

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European Adventure 2011–Bruges

21 Jun

Sadly, I only had one day in Bruges.  I woke up in Brussels, packed (AGAIN), and headed for the train station.  I got another lovely compliment on the way out the door.  When I told the bellhop I was headed to the train station, he asked, “Oh, are you headed back to the UK?”  I don’t know if I subconsciously put on a fake accent here or if (what I want to believe) I’m just so polished and pulled-together that people can’t believe I’m American, but whatever it is, I like it. 

The Brussels Midi train station is a nightmare.  I wandered around for 20 minutes before I found the place where they sell domestic train tickets.  Just so you know, it’s different from the place where they sell international train tickets.  Which is different than Thalys.  Which is different than Eurostar.  And there are no signs.  So I eventually bought my ticket, which is just a ticket to Bruges, whenever.  I find the departures board, and it says 12:05 Ghent, and then on the next line it says Brugge Oostende.  No punctuation between the words.  So I’m like, is this Bruges?  (Or Brugge, whatever, just a spelling difference.)  Or is this Brugge Oostende thing another station, like Brussels Midi, Brussels Nord, etc.?  So then I google Brugge Oostende, and it tells me there’s a Brugge-Oostende airport.  And I don’t want to go to the airport.  But there’s not another Brugge on the board, and it’s 11:57.  So I decide to drag my suitcase to the platform and see if there’s anyone I can ask.  No one seems to work at this train station, but I approached a nice, elderly gentleman who told me that they were two different places, and it would stop in Brugge after Ghent, and yes, it’s very confusing that there’s no punctuation.  Then he told me that next time, I should go to Ghent, too.  Yes, sir. 

I made it to the absolutely charming PAND Hotel without further incident.  My cabdriver in Bruges was delightful; he pointed out all the major sights as we drove into town.  And when I made it up to my room, I opened the windows to this view:

I think it would be impossible for me not to love Bruges after that sight. 

I took just a moment to get organized, and then I was out the door.  I grabbed a super-quick omelette and frites lunch at the closest cafe (not sure what it was called, but it was next to the little guys at left), and then I went to the Church of Our Lady, which is best known for having one of the only Michelangelo sculptures outside of Italy and, I believe, the only one to have left during his lifetime.  It was very lovely; I must admit that Michelangelo does a remarkably uncreepy Baby Jesus.  (Sometimes they look weird.  Sorrybutit’strue.)

Then I meant to go to this museum where they recreate like a blacksmith’s shop and a cobbler’s shop…I don’t know, it sounded kind of like colonial Williamsburg.  But I got lost.  Not lost exactly…it’s seemingly impossible to get lost in Bruges.  You think you’ve gone really far, and then you turn the corner, and you can see the damn Belfry again, which means you’re just a couple blocks from the center of town.  It all just winds back into the Markt (the main square), and try as I might, I couldn’t quite break out of the labyrinth.  To be fair, though, I kind of gave up after a couple of times and just decided to go in some shops and look at pretty things. 

And pretty things are everywhere in Bruges, both inside and outside the shops.  My sister-in-law kept saying in Sorrento that everywhere you looked was like a postcard, and the same is definitely true of Bruges.  All the buildings are lovely, like the one at right.  I found myself just wandering around, taking in the sights.  At one point, passing through the Markt, I saw several men in dark suits with those coiled earpieces like the Secret Service wear walking together.  Regretfully, I couldn’t spot anyone who looked important enough to protect.  Then again, I completely suck at identifying people, so who knows.  Anyway, I walked and gawked at buildings, and then I would get tired and stop to sit for awhile in squares like this one:

And then I’d get up and wander some more and go in some more shops.  After a few hours, I felt like I’d walked down every street in Bruges, which isn’t quite true, but it’s pretty close.  So I sat on a bench that faced the lovely canal at left for a bit.  I read and took photos for a few couples and watched the swans swim around and laughed at the tourists in their overcrowded boats.  I have many faults, but I have never been accused of not being able to entertain myself. 

With about forty-five minutes left before my dinner reservation, I decided to head into a bar I’d seen down the street and have a beer or two before dinner.  I let the super-hot bartender give me whatever kind of beer was his favorite, since a) he was super hot and b) we have previously established that I am not picky about beer (wine, yes).  So I’m reading my Kindle and drinking my beer when this guy orders a tea (tea?  seriously?) and asks if he can sit down next to me.  I say sure and continue reading, but apparently he wants to chat. 

So in the spirit of vacation, I indulge him.  First he makes me guess which country he’s from, which I really, really despise.  But alright, he’s obviously from India, fine.  So then he tells me his life story, which is actually pretty interesting.  He grew up in South Africa and England, and now he works for the EU in African relief, living in Bruges and commuting to Brussels when necessary.  Pretty freaking cool.  A lot cooler than my life.  But aside from the interesting backstory, he’s annoying the hell out of me.  He goes, “You know what really bothers me about America?  Social security and health care.  I mean, can you explain that?”  I politely inform him that these things don’t make sense to most Americans either and that there are many thousand-page policy papers that he probably has readily accessible that could explain those things to him.  Ok, maybe it wasn’t so polite.  But really.  Then he keeps dropping these ridiculous hints like, “I’m going to Portugal with some friends next week.  Last time I went it was with a partner, but now I’m going by myself.”  I get it.  You’re single.  Because I live here, and I’m going to be your girlfriend.  Then he asks me what I’m doing for the rest of the evening, and I say I have dinner reservations at 8.  He asks where, and I tell him.  And he proceeds to give me a lecture about how tourists spend too much money on food, and there’s a nice kebab stand around the corner.  I think all you have to do is look at the title of this blog to understand why this pisses me off. 

Then he pushes me over the edge.  He turns to the bartender, says a bunch of words in Dutch, and then a few minutes later, I have another beer in front of me.  Now this might seem like a nice gesture.  He bought me a beer.  But here’s the thing–boys, listen up–it’s much, MUCH nicer if you ask a girl if she would like something instead of just forcing something upon her.  (This obviously applies to um…many things.)  See, I’d already had two beers, and I was leaving for dinner in ten minutes.  But now I have this full beer, which obviously I’m going to drink because it’s the nice thing to do, and believe it or not, I generally try to do the nice thing. 

So I drink my beer, and I go to the restaurant, Rock Fort, and the waiter’s all, “Would you like an apertif?”  God no, I just had three beers.  But when I order my food, I ask for a glass of red wine with my entree since I ordered steak.  So right away, he brings over the end of a bottle and tells me I can finish it (only like a glass and a quarter in there).  Naturally, I drink it with my incredibly delicious rocket (that’s arugula to you Americans) and parmesan salad–extra tasty because they brought a bowl of additional cheese that I could add if I wanted.  Obviously, I immediately dumped it on the salad.  I’m not an idiot.  So then one of my waiters (I had two boys, both adorable, just FYI) clears my plate, and I ask him if I can have another glass of wine with my entree.  My entree comes–a fantastic, perfectly seasoned and cooked Irish ribeye, i.e. heaven, but the wine is nowhere to be seen.  Finally, when I’m 5/6 of the way through my steak, one of the waiters comes to the table, apologizes profusely, and says, “Don’t worry; I will make it up to you.”  He then sets down a glass of wine ALONG WITH THE ENTIRE BOTTLE.  Oh dear. 

Now, for the record, I did not drink the entire bottle.  But I did have a couple glasses, as well as an awesome dessert sampler.  There was a chocolate mousse, an apple crumble, a yogurt sorbet, and some kind of fizzy raspberry thing.  Normally, I’m not big on raspberries, but this was soooo good.  It tasted like I imagine Willy Wonka’s fizzy lifting drink would; I felt like I was going to float right up to the ceiling.  I have no idea how the chef did that, but I was impressed.  (And it takes a lot to impress me when it comes to dessert, as you’ve seen over the course of this trip.)  I ask for the check, and when it comes, the second glass (bottle) of wine is not on it.  I asked the waiter, and he said, “No, no, don’t worry about it.”  So either my waiters thought I was as cute as I found them to be (possible), or Rock Fort has the best service in all of Europe.  Needless to say, I highly recommend the restaurant.  And also needless to say, the entire city of Bruges was obviously conspiring to get me drunk.

Then I’m walking back to my hotel, thinking the night is over and wishing I could stay in Bruges longer, when these two guys stop me.  Don’t worry; it’s not scary.  They’re clearly backpackers and clearly stoned, and they’re all, “Excuse me?” in their British accents.  So I stop, keeping a tight grip on my handbag nevertheless.  And they ask, “Do you know where we could find a kebab stand around here?”  I pretty much died laughing, which confused the hell out of them.  What is with Bruges and kebab stands?  When I had managed to pull myself together, I said, “No, I’m sorry, but I was in a bar one street over, and some guy told me there was one right around the corner.”  They’re high enough to think this is actually useful information, and they give me a hug (very tight grip on the handbag) before we go our separate ways. 

Bruges is unexpectedly full of adventure for such a teeny town.

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European Adventure 2011–Brussels, Day Three

20 Jun

As I mentioned yesterday, most touristy things in Brussels are closed on Mondays, and my feet were still aching when I woke up.  So I gave myself a bit of a pass.  I slept in and wandered out just in time for lunch, which I had at a very teeny, cute cafe–Todt’s Cafe (no website that I can find, on Rue de Rollebeek).  I was starving, and I horrified the waiter by asking for both a goat cheese salad AND a croque monsieur AND THEN asking if he could put an egg on it and make it a croque madame.  He obliged, though, and I came perilously close to cleaning my plates.  Hey, did you read the previous post?  I do a lot of walking here.  Calories = energy. 

Keep that in mind as we walk down the street to my next stop, Pierre Marcolini, perhaps the most prominent chocolate maker in a town filled with chocolate makers.  I got a sampler box, which I will snack on for the rest of my trip, and confounded yet another Belgian by asking for one Earl Grey chocolate to eat right now.  Mmmmmmm good. 

I then wandered back towards the Grand’ Place and discovered by accident that the Art Nouveau store I wanted to go in yesterday and that was supposed to be closed today was randomly open!  Bliss.  So I went in and ogled some wineglasses that would be impossible to transport back to the States and tres expensive to ship before buying a really gorgeous tin that I’m going to use to hold all of my ticket stubs and general memorabilia from the trip. 

To my slight embarassment, my next stop was the Manneken Pis, a rather stupid little statue of a boy peeing into a fountain (see left), which for some reason has become one of the main sights in Brussels.  So I went to see it and discovered where all the tourists have been hiding.  (Find the dumbest spot in any city, and that will be where all the people are.  It’s sad.)  Apparently, he has a bunch of outfits that he wears on holidays and stuff, but today, somewhat disappointingly, he was sans clothing.

I don’t know why, when traveling in foreign countries, I feel the urge to see things that I would have no desire to see in America.  If you told me there was a fountain in Dallas or something that had a statue of a child peeing into it, I would just look at you like you were crazy and move about my business.  But when I travel, I read all these guidebooks that talk things up, and I just feel the irrational need to see them all in person.  So I saw it, and now you’ve seen it.  And to make myself feel better, I had a waffle (see right–I didn’t eat even half of it, for the record). 

At this point, I would have loved to go chill in a park somewhere, but unfortunately it had been raining juuuuust enough to justify an umbrella all day.  So instead, I decided to go lie in bed for a bit.  The chocolates may or may not have joined me. 

It cleared up in time for dinner (because goodness knows, I needed more food!), and I walked back to the Grand’ Place and ate at ‘T Kelderke, a cave-like restaurant in a corner of the square.  On the way there, I saw a fountain that I like much more than the one previously discussed (see left).  For dinner, I had another traditional Flemish dish, carbonnades flamandes.  It was kind of the consistency of pot roast but in a flavorful rich, brown sauce–very delicious.  And guess what it came with–MORE FRITES!  Gotta love Belgium. 

I will say, though, that I’ve found these frites to be a bit disappointing.  They’re very thick, like steak fries, and they’re completely unseasoned.  I’m not going to be the one to do it, but someone should tell the Belgians there’s a lot more you can do with a french fry than just dump mayonnaise all over it.  Ew.  (My all-time favorite french fry was in Aspen–cooked in truffle oil and covered with naturally salty pecorino cheese.  Delicious.) 

After dinner, it was back to the hotel and early to bed because I’m off to Bruges tomorrow!

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European Adventures–Brussels, Day Two

19 Jun

I killed my feet today.  They’re still attached to my legs, but they may never again regain full functionality.  When I finally made it back to the hotel in the early evening, I lay on the bed for a full twenty minutes, whimpering softly.  The guidebook said that Brussels was a small city, and you could walk to everything easily.  The guidebook is a liar. 

The problem is that most museums and things in Brussels are closed on Mondays, so I had to fit all of my must-dos into one Sunday.  I began by walking to the Place du Grand Sablon where they have an antiques market every Sunday.  The market was excellent–small but very high quality.  Unfortunately, I realized as I was approaching that I only had forty euros in my wallet, and my ATM card was hidden back at the room.  This may have been a blessing in disguise, though, because I was on the hunt for a teapot.  (If you don’t know me, I collect antique teapots, but I only buy them when I’m traveling.  I have teapots from locations as exotic as Florence, Madrid, and Buenos Aires and as banal as Dallas.)  I fell in love with one at the very first stall; it was painted in all different colors.  I diligently walked around the rest of the market but didn’t see another one I liked.  I returned to the first stall and asked the man how much it was.  Eighty euros.  Dammit.  I immediately began considering whether I wanted to make the mile-long trek back to the hotel.  But when I picked up the teapot to examine it more closely, I saw that the spout had broken off and been glued back on.  I asked the man about it, and he said, “Oh yes, it’s been glued.”  I thought about bickering with him over the price ($120 for a broken teapot, really?), but I didn’t think it was worth it.  The spout may not have survived the trip home, and a teapot without a spout is just sad.  I walked away feeling disappointed, but there’s always the Parisian flea market.

Then I went to the Musical Instruments Museum.  I thought the description sounded kind of weird, but I wanted to see the outside of the fabulous Art Nouveau building (see left).  And I’d heard the cafe at the top was pretty good.  I thought about just going straight up there, but when I walked in, I was like, eh, I’m here, may as well buy a ticket.  And I’m so glad I did because this is one of the coolest museums I’ve ever seen.  They have all these instruments on display, and they give you a free headset.  When you step in front of one of the displays, the music that matches the instrument automatically starts playing on your headset.  It’s seriously so fun.  I wanted to run around like a little kid from one display to another.  My favorite part was the first floor where they have different orchestras from around the world, so you can hear what a collection of instruments typical to China, Japan, different parts of Africa, etc. would sound like.  Eventually, I made my way to the cafe where I had a very good quiche and a nice chat with the German lady next to me. 

Then I went next door (I love it when museums are grouped) to the Magritte Museum, which I also really enjoyed.  The museum was very well curated; it took you through his work chronologically, and there was a little timeline at the beginning of every floor, so you knew the historical background before you started looking at the art.  I especially loved the quotations of his that were painted on the walls.  They were written in French, but small booklets were provided with translations to other languages.  My favorite quote is:

“I detest my own past and that of others.  I detest resignation, patience, professional heroism, and all those nice, obligatory sentiments.  I also detest the decorative arts, folklore, publicity, the voice of speakers, aerodynamics, boy scouts, the smell of gasoline, topical matters, and drunkards.  I love subversive humor, freckles, knees, the long hair of women, the laugh of young children at liberty, a young girl running in the street.  I wish for real love, the impossible and the utopian.  I fear knowledge of my exact limits.”

Just a small taste.  I only knew a bit about Magritte before visiting the museum, but I felt very immersed in his art and his entire philosophy by the time I was through.   

I had a small disappointment after the museum.  I wanted to go to a small shop I’d read about that supposedly did very nice art nouveau reproductions, but when I got there, I saw that the opening hours had changed so that they were now closed on both Sunday and Monday.  Dangit. 

So I trudged onwards, working my way towards the Horta Museum on the completely opposite end of town.  Victor Horta was one of the primary Art Nouveau architects.  The museum is his former home, which retains many of the original interiors and decorative objects.  As you can probably tell from this post, I have a bit of a thing for Art Nouveau (I like Art Deco as well).  I never knew I was really into architecture, but my visit to Chicago last year sparked an interest in me, and seeing pictures of all the unique architecture in Brussels while I was prepping for this trip had me salivating. 

All of this is to say that I was very excited about this museum, which explains why I kept walking…and walking…and walking.  I looked for taxis but never saw any.  And the subway station seemed like it was as far away as I had to walk, so I just kept going.  The next to last street that I had to walk down (or up, rather) was one big hill that was just steep enough that it made your legs burn but not so steep that you could legitimately give up.  My feet were already a bit tired (the thing about museums is that you walk a mile around and around in circles), and by the time I made it to the end of the street/top of the hill, I was toast.  But my goal was in sight, so I persevered.  And the walk wasn’t all bad.  I saw pretty buildings like the one at right and some of the comic murals that Brussels is famous for like the one at left.

Eventually, I made it to the Horta Museum, and it was very cool.  I loved all the little touches–the Art Nouveau style doorknobs were the best; if I ever build a house (or redo mine), reproductions of those doorknobs are going in it.  Once again, I couldn’t take pictures inside, but there’s a pictures of the outside on the left.  You can see the cool ironwork he did on the door and balcony railings. 

So then I was done with the museum, it was almost five, which means that all of the other museums were closed, and I was faced with the very serious problem of how to get back to my hotel, which was several miles away.  I wanted a taxi, but none were in sight, so I set off for the metro station.  The station was a good twenty to thirty minute walk, in which time I saw three–count ‘em, three–taxis, all filled.  Perhaps, Brussels, you need some more freaking cabs.  Although to be fair, I’ve also been surprised at how few people there are out on the streets.  They have these massive sidewalks and pedestrian-only areas, but I’ve seen maybe fifty pedestrians all day.  Where are the people?  I see cars parked on the side of the roads; presumably people put them there.  Very odd. 

And what’s even more odd is that despite the relatively small number of people I’ve seen, I was accosted on the street three times today.  The first time, a big, scary looking man came up to me and said something in French that I couldn’t understand.  I didn’t really want to understand, though; I just yelled, NO!, grabbed my handbag and walked faster.  So my apologies if he was just asking if I had the time or something like that.  The second time, a woman came up and said, “Pardon, madame, French bligity blah French.”  (In case you haven’t noticed, I suck at French.  I can catch some words in Spanish and the gist in Italian, but I’m hopeless at French.  Paris should be fun.)  She just seemed like some kind of solicitor, so I told her I didn’t speak French and walked on.  The third person was obviously a homeless nutcase yelling about something.  I literally shooed him away, and he yelled down the street after me; this was the only time all day I was happy to not understand a lick of French. 

Anyway, I eventually made it to the subway, where I had a very easy ride back to the stop that was right in front of my hotel.  But the damage had been done, and I collapsed onto my bed and proceeded with the aforementioned whimpering. 

Somehow I found the strength to pull myself up again and go to dinner.  I went to a small brasserie just off the Grand’ Place, La Roue d’Or.  The hostess told me to come back in thirty minutes, so I just went in the nearest bar and had a beer (a Kwak…it was fine…beer kind of all tastes the same to me, sorry, but it came with a fun wooden holder for the glass).  I was eventually seated, and I had white asparagus soup and a steak with pepper sauce and the inevitable frites.  It was good–basic, filling–all I really expected.

I walked back to the hotel, marveling at how light it still was outside.  11 PM and not really even full dark; it still looked like dusk.  June in Northern Europe is fantastic like that.

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European Adventure 2011–Brussels, Day One

18 Jun

Today was a travel day, and it was a bit tiring.  (I know this post sounds dull, but stay with me.  Super embarassing story just ahead.)  My flight from Naples to Brussels didn’t leave until 4:40 PM, so I had plenty of time in the morning.  I packed and ate a leisurely breakfast in my new favorite dining room, saying farewell to the gorgeous ocean views and sunny skies. 

I checked out at 11 PM on the dot and took a taxi to the train station, where I was catching the Curreri Viaggi bus to the Naples airport.  The luxury private car days are over.  Without a bunch of people to share the cost, the ten euro bus is the only thing that makes sense.  I was absurdly early for the noon bus, but everyone loaded up to get a good seat, so I sat on the hot, unairconditioned bus for forty-five minutes.  I tried to run into the train station to use the restroom, but the only one available was past the point where you needed a ticket. 

So we set off on our hour and a half journey to the airport, and I turned on my iPod, missing my Nook, and tried to think of deserts and ignore the fact that I really had to pee.  We made a couple stops to pick up more people, and our trip was moving along very slowly.  With an hour left to go, it got to the point where I wanted to scream with every curve of the road, and if you read my Amalfi Coast post, you know those roads have a lot of curves.  So when we made a stop right in front of a hotel, I seized my chance, jumping off the bus and telling the bewildered and irritated driver that I HAD to go to the bagno, and he HAD to wait for me.  And then I ran–literally, I did the hundred yard dash to the door, burst into the lobby, and yelled, “Dove il bagno??” to the poor man at the front desk.  He pointed me down the hall, I did my business quickly, and sprinted to the door, praying the bus was still there.  It was, and as I ran back to it, I realized that everyone on the bus was probably staring out their windows, wondering what the crazy girl was doing.  Maybe a couple of them tweeted about it.  My relief overpowered my embarassment, but I shoved my earbuds back in as I sank into my seat, panting, so I couldn’t hear any chuckles coming from my fellow passengers.

After that adventure, the rest of the day was cake.  I arrived at the airport so early that I couldn’t even check into my flight, but I found a couple English-language books, so I didn’t mind chilling for a bit.  I ate my last Italian pizza; they made them to order right there in the airport.  Yummy.  I went through security, marveling yet again at how much more pleasant it is than in the U.S.  Then I was one person away from handing my boarding pass to the attendant so I could get on the bus that would take me to the plane when we were stopped.  Apparently the plane was still fueling, and we couldn’t be out there.  So we all returned to our seats for another forty-five minutes and then proceeded without further problems. 

When I arrived in Brussels at about 7:45 PM, I was slightly confused that the entire airport was basically shut down already–all the shops, restaurants, etc., but the good news is that there wasn’t a line at the taxi stand.  When I got in the cab, the driver (male) was rocking out to vintage Madonna.  Vogue was blaring through his speakers.  I took it as a good sign. 

I also took it as a good sign that he told me that I didn’t talk like an American.  And a little old lady at the airport thought I was Irish.  It’s sad, but in Europe, that’s a win. 

I checked into my hotel (the Hotel Metropole, a big, lovely, richly-decorated establishment), threw my suitcase in my room, and went to dinner at Aux Armes de Bruxelles, a Brussels institution.  It was packed, even at 9:30, but I just had to wait a few minutes for a table.  I started with a cold salad of green beans and smoked duck breast, and then I had the moules frites (mussels with fries) that they’re known for.  I opted for the white wine and cream sauce version, and they arrived in a massive pot.  Completely delicious and fun to eat.  I wasn’t going to have dessert, but they were flambeing crepes in the middle of the room in an orange liqueur, and the smell was heavenly.  So I had the crepes and walked back to my hotel full and happy, ready for a good night’s rest before a very big day tomorrow.

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European Adventure 2011–Sorrento, Day Four

17 Jun

This was our final day in Sorrento, and I think we did it up right.  Our driver from Tuesday, Maurizio, picked us up at 9 AM for a tour of the Amalfi coast.  We stopped for a photo break before we’d reached the first town to take pictures of the coastline and the Siren Islands.  After that quick stop, it was on to Positano.  As we drove, Maurizio pointed out gorgeous hotels, famous people’s houses, Byzantine and Norman towers, etc.  He told us there were 1600 curves on the road, so it’s understandable that the adults were slightly nauseated the whole day.  The kids, remarkably, were fine. 

Positano was lovely.  There were loads of shops, many of them selling linen clothing, but there were lots of fun sculptures, too (see left).  And on our way down to the water, we walked under an awning of bouganvillea. 

In the next town, my sister-in-law discovered that she’d left her camera in a bathroom in Positano.  This was a serious tragedy because she wasn’t traveling with her laptop, so she hadn’t uploaded any of her photos yet.  We went back to Positano to fetch the camera, and while we were there, I got some great longer shots of the town:

After Positano, we went up to Ravello, which is a gorgeous hilltop town.  We toured through the Villa Rufolo (partially to escape our driver, who was trying to direct us to another awful, tourist-filled restaurant), which is where they have concerts every July and August.  Though I was happy to not be walking around there at the height of summer, I did wish I could see a concert in that lovely, peaceful setting. 

We then ate lunch in the self-selected Ristorante Pizzeria Vittoria, right off the main square.  I believe everyone else thought their lunch was ok, but I thought mine was completely fantastic.  I started with a caprese salad, which came with excellent bufala mozzarella and cherry tomatoes, which is an important distinction because the regular tomatoes had been very hit or miss on this portion of the trip.  For a main course, I had suckling pig with potato crochettes, and it was extra delicious–probably the best meat course I’d had so far in Italy.  I was thrilled. 

There was a ceramics store right across the street from the restaurant, and before our main courses had arrived, both my sisters had piles made.  I hadn’t intended to buy anything, but then my sister mentioned that we could combine shipping and that the pieces were dishwasher-proof, microwave-proof, virtually indestructible, and well…I got sucked in.  I got two trivets, a spoon rest, a Christmas ornament, and the gorgeous pasta bowl at left. 

Next, we drove back down the hill to Amalfi, which was the least impressive town, despite the fact that the entire coastline bears its name.  To be fair, though, we also spent the least amount of time here–just enough to go into the amazing cathedral, eat gelato, and buy some paper products.  The cathedral was great, much more interesting than a typical church with displays of various treasures they’d collected over the years and really interesting architectural features. 

We were running late by the time we piled back in the van, and we still needed to make a quick stop at a ceramics factory so my sister could buy goblets.  We were a full hour late back to the hotel, so I didn’t get to dress up as I’d planned for our grown-up night.  That’s right, the kids had a baby-sitter, and we were out on the town. 

The girls’ first stop was the hotel bar, where we had a glass of Prosecco on the terrace.  We then moved to the Corner Store, a nearby wine shop.  We split a case to ship back home and shared a bottle of Greco di Tufo, a very light, drinkable white, with the owner of the store. 

All liquored up, we were ready for dinner at Il Buco, a Michelin starred restaurant.  We started with an assortment of freshly-baked bread, which included fun additions like basil bread.  They even brought gluten-free bread for my allergic sister, which made her unbelievably happy.  Once again, my first course was the most delicious–a duo of scallops, one seared and one stuffed with cheese and fried (pictured at left).  I ate half of it and traded my sister-in-law for the second half of her appetizer, a delicious lobster in an unfortunately too-sweet sauce.  We think an overuse of fennel may have been the culprit.  For my second course, I had vegetable soup, which was good but nothing special.  My sister had a spectacular ginger risotto, though, which sat atop raw tuna.  My third course was steak with walnut sauce.  The steak was perfectly cooked, but the quality of beef wasn’t very high.  The sauce was great, though.  For dessert, my sister-in-law and I split thin puff pastry layers with mousse in between.  I really enjoyed that part, though there was a cherry sauce that I didn’t care for.  Overall, Il Buco is a step above other restaurants in Sorrento in terms of creativity and quality.  The servers are incredibly polite and helpful, and we thoroughly enjoyed our meal there.  We lingered over a couple glasses of limoncello before reluctantly bidding farewell to Il Buco and our time in Sorrento.

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European Adventure 2011–Sorrento, Day Three

16 Jun

Today was very relaxed; it was our designated free day.  I slept in til ten and then explored the town while my nieces and nephews were on the beach.  I’ve never been a big beach person.  The ocean is full of creepy things, and sand is just a fancy word for dirt.  I was even happier to have stayed away after I heard that my poor niece was stung by a jellyfish!  Apparently she came screaming out of the water with tentacle particles on her forehead and cheek.  I had no idea jellyfish could sting even when they were in pieces, but she has the welts to prove it.  Very sad.

Anyway, I missed all the drama when I was roaming around.  I found a wedding present for a dear friend and bought myself a little something as well–a miniature ceramic Christmas tree/teapot.  The tree has a little spout and handle hahaha.  I know it’s a ridiculous thing to buy, but I collect antique teapots, and I love Christmas.  I think it’ll look good sitting amidst my collection this December.  That’s all I purchased today.  The tourists were out in full force with their fanny packs.  I think there was a cruise ship or something; there were so many. 

Lunch was disappointing.  I stopped in at a random restaurant we’d seen the previous night and thought was cute.  I ordered zucchini flowers to start, thinking they’d be lighly fried.  Instead they came out encased in pastry nearly an inch thick.  I think there was a zucchini flower in there somewhere…  I choked down one to be polite and cut up another one to try to mask how little I’d eaten.  I didn’t have much hope for the second course, and the gnocchi alla Sorrentina I’d ordered was predictably disappointing.  The sauce tasted canned.  Oh well.  The wine was fine! 

I will admit, though, that part of the problem may have been that I had nothing to read during lunch, which made me extra cranky.  My Nook decided to reset to factory settings, and I have yet to run across an English-language bookstore.  I have a Kindle on the way (I know, I’m ridiculous), but for now I’m bookless, which is akin to being armless in my world.  I put one earbud in my wall-side ear surreptitiously so I could listen to the new Kate Voegele album, but it wasn’t quite the same.  Additionally, as much as I hate to admit it, I don’t like listening to music because it makes me think too much.  When you’re 27, single, surrounded by couples and traveling alone, it’s best not to think too much.  That’s all I’m going to say about that. 

I wandered around taking photos after lunch; I’ve posted a couple here.  Sorrento is a very photogenic town.  And it’s very easy.  I feel safe, I can walk everywhere I want to go, it has everything I need…it’s a town you can relax in. 

I took a quick nap, then prepared to meet everyone else for dinner.  We were dining at the very end of the Grand Marina, at Bagni Delfino.  The walk down was beautiful, though I went down so many steps that I was dreading the walk back.  The restaurant was great for the kids; they ran up and down the dock while we ate peacefully.  I had proscuitto and melon (the melon is amazing this time of year) and mussels, which were obviously fresh, but I missed the gourmet sauce/extra something that fancier restaurants provide.  The atmosphere was lovely, though, and we got to watch the sun go down on our third night in Sorrento. 

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