We Are The World, We Are The Children

Imagine that.  A world where we all happily mix and mingle among each other.  Not simply tolerating ourselves but sincerely enjoying our varied differences, cultures, foods, traditions and smells.  Of course, this merry scene does play out in many moments and marked places around the globe.  As we've all experienced, most of us, our neighbors, and strangers do invite one and all in a spirit of generosity, kindness and friendship.  However, times and situations present themselves where our brethren stoop to actions less than human, against each other, requiring a meeting of the minds, of the world, to find solutions. 

So, like a kid in a candy store, this geek, yours truly, giggles, heart-stops and skips gaily at, of all places, the United Nations.  The dual headquarters in New York City and Geneva make me a twitter with bliss and possibility.  Reality boldly teaches that the world is not peaceful, xenophobia lives strong and some places are simply too dangerous to alight upon.  Yet, for me, the United Nations, represents the movement that believes that differences can find common ground and that we truly do seek a world that we can all enjoy equally. 

For an international traveler, it is only fitting that I, along with my fellow adventurers and curiosity seekers, believe in the ability to see natural and man-made wonders, eat insane cuisine and hear vibrant and varied music all across the globe. 

So, on our fab trip to Europe, a stop in Geneva required a paid tour and one hour lecture at the very Kum Ba Ya edifice, where the world meets and has a conversation.

As a human rights attorney, I've spoken at the UN on human trafficking and, as a career goal, hope to enter the headquarters in Geneva as an invited guest.  For now, like a naive school girl and professed nerd, I simply toured with exalted energy and internal hope and faith that the people who negotiate, delegate and compromise within these great rooms do so with a sincere effort to make our world positively interconnected.                                                                                       

For a lover of travel, the idea of a united world is taken for granted, obvious, easy and expected.  As if anything else could or should be the norm.  How else are we to be born one place and see all others, to experience culture, nature, people and lifestyles that are different from ours.

 

Maybe travelers are the true ambassadors of the globe. Maybe those who cross borders, intermingle and make friends in countries not their own inherently and without pomp and circumstance serve as the true diplomats.  Maybe travelers are the unsung world of the international foreign service.  I like the sound of that and wear my smile for all persons as my badge. 

Even "No Nuts..." Is A Travelling Fool

Check us out romanticising on Paris on travelwithamate.com     

I Love Paris In the Springtime...Or ANYTIME
http://www.travelwithamate.com/10-things-to-do-in-paris-france

Highly Amusing

Ooooooooo, a carnival at my age.  How much fun it can be.

A friend and I trained it to Geneva on a whim...as one spontaneously does when one attempts to be fabulous.  With no real plan or agenda, we found ourselves mesmerized by the out of the blue, ride-ridden carnival on the Rhone River banks of this international and supposedly high-brow city.  Now, when I think Geneva, I think Arabic fun fair.  Doesn't everyone?  In our attempts to be très chic we ended up quite cultured...and in a great way. 

Walking towards the water on a dusk evening upon first arriving, we curiously strode towards the heart-thumping rhythms of dance-inducing drum beats, tinging ouds and passionate vocals - aka, alluring and exciting music of the Middle East.  Then...eventually...we saw it:  the spaceship-like, neon contraption that was inevitably the thrilling, breathless, high above the city "Chair-O-Planes" that had to be ridden. 

All our euro cash later, we flew atop the city and Geneva became a child-like, Swiss Chuck E. Cheese of my dreams and not the shopping, chocolate mecca I thought it to be. 

So what to do on the 2nd day...why, tackle the spinning ferocity of the "Tagada", a no seat belt, no restraint, up and down hydraulic adventure.  Oh man.  With the hypnotic music thumping like a nightclub, we sat down, grabbed the back handlebars and latched on for dear life as this maniac round bowl of a ride whirled like an out of control washing machine.  I laughed, I screamed and, I'm sure, stopped breathing at some point.  Head Spin, Heart-Pumping.  Eyes Wide and Stomach Lurching.  Dizzying, Tizzying.  And at the end I caught my breath in pure exhilaration.  So what did we do.  We rode it again...and again. 

I don't know if this carnival is a permanent fixture in the city or present only temporarily for our impulsive pleasure.  Therefore, I can't recommend it for your structured itinerary.  But hopefully you'll be able to toss your plans and find yourself giddy with cotton candy and sugared apples at the world's greatest fair. 

Officer...I've Been Robbed! Switzerland

I had never been robbed.  Never been violated so brazenly, so openly.  Previously, I frolicked in the streets of the world, innocently eying and buying many trinket, toys and treats.

Until, that is...my sweet reverie was slashed and I traversed the streets of...dun, dUN, DUUUUN...Switzerland.

Was it late at night?  On a suspicious, dark street corner?  Seedy part of town?  Scary?!

No.  Nope.  None of the above.

It was in broad daylight.  On a soft afternoon....and first, at the McDonald's. 

It was a hot afternoon.  Three girls, never ones to prioritize fast food and yet craving something fast, cheap and known.  All enter the lit, crowded Mickey D's and unassumingly, naively begin ordering:  1 chicken sandwich meal, 1 veggie burger and...1 small fries.  And then it happened, out of nowhere, quick as lighting, without a moment to grasp reality and stop the madness.  The Swiss stole from us!  Just took our $35.00 [$35!!] U.S. dollars!!

If you are a masochist and seeking the rush of a victim of monetary violence, Switzerland is your destination of choice. 

No need to grab a hold tight of your purse.  Or put your money in the hotel safe.  No need to carry your valuables in a weird travel pouch that hangs from your neck and requires you to oddly and perversely reach into and under your blouse to procure a Euro.  No, the vendors of this neutral sovereign state, as friendly as they are, just rob you point blank, unassumingly and straight to your face.  They take your money with concealed force and with the sweetest smile.  As if it's normal.  No mask, no gun.  Neither threats nor intimidation.  So smooth and nonchalant was this incessant hold up that I didn't even realize I was in danger.  Just so simple, as if it was no big deal:

Me: "I'd like to buy a chocolate".  The Vendor: "Sure Madame, no problem...that will be $342 euros".
or,
Me: "I'd like that newspaper".  The Vendor: "Suuuure Madame, but of course...that will be $829 euros". 

If only Switzerland was a charity I'd be more philanthropic than Mother Theresa.  Or more boisterously, like the Sultan of Bahrain throwing my money carelessly in the air showering the streets with my 1 Euro bills

Even our paddle boat was branded with the steering wheel of high-society BMW (however, still energized by the [wo]man-power of yours truly and my very impressed friend).

As gorgeous as Switzerland is, no doubt its beauty is awe-inspiring and picture book perfect, never, ever judge this book by its cover.  Cuz the Swiss paperback might just steal all your money leaving you with a a belly-full of trans fat fast food and not even a penny or pence to buy yo-self some acid-reflux cum anxiety-reducin meds.

In Switzerland, beware.
Open your wallet at your own serious financial risk...or even ruin.

Oooops...I Did It Again

Damn those sailboats.

What is it about the sleek curves, shiny handles, chiseled exterior, buffed hard wood floors, and full-bodied hull - all crashing against fiery waves. Gets me every time.  Every. Time!

But nope, this girl has learned her lesson.  Don't let them smooth sailboats take me for a ride. Uh-uhh.  This time I know better.  This time no sleepovers, no one night stands.  After a few hours sailing the lake seas, I was respectfully going home, thank you very much. No matter how fun, how giddy, how enticing that ride would be, before embarking on that shiny vessel, I did the equivalent of not shaving my legs and promising, resolutely devoting myself, to come ashore with chastity belt intact and no way in hell was I sleeping with that boat.  

3 night stay on the sailor in the Whitsundays, Australia - nearly lost my damn mind.
Overnight on the houseboat in Kerala, India - jesus, twas near death.
Lake Cuomo, Italy - No way in hell was I rolling the dice.

Like a bad boyfriend that you just can't say no to, don't want to say no to. Never really right for ya, a thorn in your side, annoying and frustrating. The one you do more for than he does for you.  Yet, soo charming, attractive and phantasmal that the tear-jerking memories erase themselves and once again you plunge into the depths of lust for someone...something...unreal.

Sailing.  I just can't quit you.

BUT.  The goal, the mission really, is that you learn from your mistakes. You manage your expectations and swallow a large dose of reality. And as one does, so did I.  Lake Cuomo sailing I went.  I would go on this exhilarating ride.  I would enjoy the wind in my hair, tan on my back, undulating vibrations in my soul with my hands firmly on the wheel.  No snoozing in the overnight berths, boat shoes securely kept on, hired private boat, pristine lavatories, even keel, champagne and strawberries - all in all, pure ecstasy.

Empowerment is a beautiful thang. Sailboat abstinence...puh-leeease. Never gonna happen. So instead, a middle ground.  Fully educated, precautions taken, risks assessed and decision made.  A little sail boating does a body good, relieves stress and well sometimes can be quite orgasmic.  As long as I remember: be a good girl and at the end of the day say your goodbyes, blow your kisses and walk satisfyingly home.

Ole Geezers

I mean...respected elders.  Of course.

Oh the quirks..errr...i mean, wisdom, of old people.  Snail strolls, salon parlor games, 9:00 pm bedtimes and gas.   Cute, silly but maybe not so cuddly.  Who knew I wanted to vay-cay with Pa-Pa's and Ne-na's.  I certainly didn't. 

All the picture books, travel brochures, rumors and George Clooney NEVER reported that beatific Lake Cuomo, Italy, housed an ant farm of the elderly.  Everywhere.  In all the lakeside towns, shops, cafe and bars.  The aged.  The mature.  The pushing 100+ crowd.  Like swarms.  And just as wasp nests discourage all outsiders, so have the wise sages of Lake Cuomo dissipated nearly all the young bucks still playing in their 20s and 30s.  No, Ibiza this isn't.  No Rio nor Miami Beach.  THIS tiny enclave surrounding a very bellissimo, never to disappoint, lago in northern Italy is THE Florida of Europe - retirement playground for those seeking a too soon word with God. 

Hotel Britannia, in the lakeside town of Cadenabbia, proved the epicenter for those not only over the hill but through the woods and beyond...and simultaneously our lustrous lodging for a few days.  Alas, old people or not, the Britannia excelled our expectations by enabling us to nest in a gargantuan, castle-like room fit for princesses.  Sky-high ceilings, heavenly-like beds, enough red velvet to challenge Versailles and floor to ceiling windowed doors that opened out into a private balcony with views of utopia forced us to forget our creaky yet enthusiastic neighbors.  Free proseco'd happy hour at 5:00 only enhanced our retirement home ambay-ance. 

So we didn't nightclub it out, shop at trendy boutiques or parlay with any Italian playboys.  Just us gals, another hike, a little silk scarf shopping, and a virgin taste of cappuccino. 

Sometimes, without permission, a tiny breather is forced upon you...to ponder that you are in fact still breathing...and a mini-early retirement becomes quite welcome indeed.  When this respite manifests itself in luxurious Lake Cuomo, shame on me to rag on the aged and elderly while fruity drinks, a soft breeze, the blue water and shaded mountain side surround me. 

A geezerly burp to waken me occasionally?  Who's to complain.

The one sighting and glimmer of youth.  So young, so fresh, so baaaby.

Chinky Terry

Apparently,

"Chinky Terry", it's not. 

"Cheen-ka-wha Te-Ra", it is. 

Cinque Terre, The Italian Riviera. 

At the wee age of 22, after college in '99, a friend and I travelled to a quaint, magnificent, if not slightly sleepy, group of five villages off the north west coast of Italy.  In the Summer of 2009, a much older, wiser, hopefully more beautifully-aged if less fit me, and two equally blessedly well ladies, tracked it back to this now more boisterously fab locale. 

If I ever had visions of the picture perfect European summer, with beaches, tans, gelato cones, cute boys and lazy summers, its interpretation in reality is Cinque Terre.  Five gorgeous villages sit on the luscious and rugged mountainside with shopping, lunch and a bathe in the sea awaiting your arrival. 

However, "arrival" to Cinque Terre is not as modern as our current times.  Trains, boats and/or walking paths provide the only methods of approach as cars cannot reach the villages from the outside.  But what fun limited transportation options bestow.  We ladies chose to take the train in from La Spezia to the first town of Riomaggiore and hike the steep walking paths from town to town.  The first stroll, lovingly nicknamed "Via Dell'Amore", proves wondrous as the breeze high up in the hills compliments the impressive overlooks to the sea.   

But beware the boot camp, height phobic, nightmarish mountain climb from Vernazza to Monterosso.  Oh, a mere 2.5! hours later from the start you feel like an Olympian after delicately navigating narrow, narrow paths, confronting stairs of nature that climb to the heavens, trekking through strangely comforting olive orchards and vineyards to eventually carry abundant cliff-hanger moments courtesy of this "hike" for superheroes. 

The few respites on this so-called "trail" seem almost like stupendous mirages:  Mr. Limonata Man appears out of nowhere among the jungle-like greenery slapping at your forehead to provide ice-cold fresh lemonade for a truly hallelujah moment.  That combined with the occasional awe-inspiring views that can only be seen from the edge of cliffs provide a truly memorable physical adventure. 

Upon arrival at either town depending on which way you started you simply thank the lords you are still alive.  And yet, as you step foot on solid, cement ground once again, a smile forms ear to ear as you realize that the beaches and sea lazily welcome you back and soak you in like a pat on the back for a trek well done. 

 

Life...

so..occasionally, sometimes...every once in awhile...this pestering lil thing called LIFE gets in the way.

and so against all desires, wishes and wants a pause is required.

thereby, my little travel food blog that could is on hold for a very short time.

but...no worries and no sorrows.  a few days, maybe a couple of weeks, okay at least a month and travel writing by yours truly will resume.  hopefully, actual travelling will as well.

Torts? Anyone?!

Only outside America, far from the reaches of our litigious, sue or be sued society, do you find a world-renowned tourist bastion that screams danger and thereby liability, tort, negligence, personal injury and maybe even wrongful death. 

Okay, if not that far-fetched then at least a violation of building codes?  Anyone? 

Nope, this potential dereliction of a government's duty of care sits not in an anything goes, everything's a risk locale in Asia or even Central or South America. Its' situated in our very own neighborly, apparently legally sound continent of Europe. 

Italy.  Tuscany.  Pisa, to be exact. 

The liability evading wonder of the world: the infamous Leaning Tower. 

Growing up and repeatedly hearing about this crazy structure that defies gravity and tilts to awesomeness, the Leaning Tower seemed over-hyped and an attraction I never truly cared to see.  Yet, what a little uppity I was.  And what a fascinating site for my tired lawyerly trained cross-eyes. 

Due to a poorly laid foundation in 1173, the marble bell tower began to lean upon construction of the third floor.  But Italians gave the finger to quitting and after 100 years of building cessation due to political strife, proceeded to just go on trekking floor after floor, tilt and all.  What a lesson in persistence...and it has certainly paid off.

The Leaning Tower has welcomed millions of visitors from around the world to climb its 293 steps to the top, regardless of its most evident, in fact its raison d'etre, characteristic.  People pay to climb onto a structure that represents THE building violation.  Most notably, the Italian government, in its global shout for assistance to fix the Tower in the 1960's, specifically requested that all solutions not eliminate the famous slant in order to promote tourism.  Brilliant. 

I love the Italians live and let live attitude.  Granted, the government does assure us that the lean of the Leaning Tower remains structurally sound for 200 years due to previous creative balancing acts such as taller lengths on the shorter side, bell removal, cables cinched and anchored, unattractive lead weights and most advanced, soil depletion.  

In the acres and acres of sunflowers lined along the road to and fro this marvel in Pisa, I ponder this architectural genius and the quixotic legal system in the Boot on a luxurious day in the sun  The only conclusion that dings like a light bulb remains, that in Italy, with my legal credentials, I would be immediately and summarily, out of work. 

Con te Partiro - With You I Will Leave

Andrea Bocelli

The power of silence bursts forth in the moment that long-absent noise appears again.  If one remains quiet for long periods, maintaining patience and a stillness that which eventually creates a sense of calm and serenity, then the surprise of action, and/or music, any reverberation, begets happiness, excitement and most significantly, a harmonious satisfaction.  

Joy percolates in the experience of a rare occurrence.  Forgetting about the event or the privilege of it after some time, only later to be pleasantly reminded and surprised that it is still there if only but for a moment.  All of us have felt it: the anticipation of something long desired, the wait, the yearning to hear and see and do again.  Even when the silence may be difficult, the craving unwavering and at times unbearable, acceptance with the absence eventually takes hold and yet suddenly at the right time, the precious moment when you almost forget, life and music springs forth to unleash  a joy that feels anew.

This experience is Lajatico, once a year in the hills of Tuscany at the birthplace of Andrea Bocelli.  Beginning in 2006, the world-renowned tenor, sings one soulful and beautiful concert a year at his famous Teatro del Silenzio built in honor of his family and heritage.  As a tribute to his mother and father, Bocelli maintains the Teatro in silence all year until the one concert in the summer, when the tiny town explodes with Italians, tourists, artists, dancers, vendors, staff, and of course, the music. 

In 2009, Bocelli invited Buddhist monks to tranquilly chant the entrance of this night of music under the stars.  The evening continued with Placido Domingo, a brilliant boon for audience goers, and Toquinho, the Brazilian singer and guitarist.  It proved truly a night to remember. 

Although attendance requires raucously early booking, car rental and/or bus rides and long, long lines for entrance, the trouble dissipates as you wait in the gorgeous Italian sun overlooking the barren countryside with the night culminating in a serenade by classical masters.  With horses, acrobatists and orchestra, Bocelli elicited a magical performance that will remain in the hearts of all listeners through the hush of one full year. 

Sometimes the absence of sound, action, or any progression supplies energy to the moment when it is time to sing, move, and accomplish again.  Maybe the wait and the longing provide for a climax that would be less meaningful without.  No doubt, Bocelli fans relish the beauty of the hillside, the soft summer breeze in the small, local town, the travel from far and near to hear, only once a year, the voice of butter of Andrea Bocelli.  And it is this silence for most of the year that builds the inertia and vitality that explodes once Bocelli bursts on the scene with his voice on that one occasion every year that Lajatico finally sings.

Firenze's Inferno

What sins did I refuse to recognize.  Did I covet dollars beyond my means, boast laziness and spew wrath. No doubt the summer brought unnecessary lust and gluttony.  Yet, did two accomplished sins with five remaining questionable require the temporary judgment to the depths of European climate hell. 

Dante, native son of Florence, journeys to the sizzling underworld in his Divine Comedy and warns us to see self-indulgence, violence and maliciousness for what it really is.  On the streets of Tuscany, I possessed no coherence, no wherewithal to comprehend or even contain a fleeting thought about my sins in the dizzying array of sweat blurred eyes, fire-burned skin and near self-destructing heat stroke. 

What I did recognize, though, was one universal truth.  Do not travel to Firenze in the summer.  Saint or sinner, you will burn. 

Inherently, Firenze encompasses the word "fire" and one should possess full awareness that yes, it is hhhhhot as hell in the summer time.  But if you manage to mentally prepare yourself to brace the heat and venture outdoors, it proves smart to sprint right over to one of the many indoor, seriously AC'd religious, artistic or historic attractions.   In fact, there seem seven quite heavenly ways to spend your time...

Lust:  The statue David, within the Accademia dell'Arte does not disappoint and is actually quite awesome.  Michelangelo carves his hero to perfection leaving no detail unturned and a viewer and non-artist much impressed. (This outdoor version mimics the more grandiose indoor masterpiece). 

Greed: Both the Salvatore Ferragamo museum, where you will learn more than you need to on mind-bogglingly expensive shoe-making for celebs, stars and the obscenely wealthy and the Pointe Vecchio, infamous for its lined windowed jewelry stores, will make you actually consider joining the seedy corporate rat race in America for those oh so precious green hundred dolla bills. 

Wrath:  Wineries are not open on Sunday in most of the Chianti region so renting a car, driving aimlessly along winding and maze-like gravel roads through the countryside while cursing and gesturing at the Italians wish to rest on this day of the lord will not satiate the alcoholic in you.  But if you can manage your frustration, the views along the lost highways produce enchanting mental escapes. 

Sloth: Rent an AC'd apartment with a large balcony on the River Arno and simply sit and sleep all day without a care in the world.

Envy:  Resenting toned, thin, fit Italian women while you scarf down heaps and loads of their native delicacies proves unavoidable.  So, simply voodoo doll them in your mind and enjoy your meal. 

Gluttony:  See Envy.  Americans can't stop themselves in the U.S. so why even ponder the thought of dieting in fresh, luscious food-producing Italy. 

And at the end of it all, climb the steps of the majestic Duomo.  Pray, wash and beg your sins away...mostly, for your pride at boasting about your trip to Europe and then burning on its streets like the devil.  Karma is a bitch in every religion. 

That's Amore

"When you dance down the street with a cloud at your feet, You're in love...."

Dean Martin captured the combined sentiment that is love and Italy in his 1953 croon, "That's Amore".  A translation in reality depicts itself on warm summer nights in Italy, with locals, your friends, and two large scoops of chocolate noir and coffee on a cona.

Dear, dear Gelato.

In Italy, you can't walk ten steps without encountering a gorgeous, lit-up, colorful and enticing Gelato shop.  With their rows and rows of freshly made creamy, rich concoctions, parlors of Gelato beckon all, young and old, rich and poor, the belly-filled and even the lactose intolerant.  Even when you're not in the mood for an ice-cold treat, you find yourself hand heavy with spheres of sugar slurping away with abandon. 

Gelato dates back to frozen desserts served in ancient Rome and Egypt and continues to wow peoples of the world today.  Its silky consistency and intense taste satisfy the palate regardless of chosen flavor.  For those who lean fruity, crushed fresh and ripe seasonal produce mesh with milk and eggs into a really excellent Gelato.  Interesting varieties include Rose, Pistachio, Watermelon and Black Cherry with Cream. 

Apparently, Gelato is the less ditzy when compared to its ally, ice-cream and thus results in a stronger more intense flavor.  Gelato-makers incorporate air into the freezing process making it denser while air is added to ice-cream after frozen creating more quantity but less va-va-va-voom flavor.  Although both make a gal happy, summer nights in Italia never prove complete without a lazy sit and stroll on the streets of any local town with a large heaping of affection on a cone.  As anyone who's licked can attest, Gelato always satisfies regardless of the origins of its birth. 

Pizza, Prosecco, Gelato....That's Amore

Zen In A Bottle

Spiritualists, meditators, sages, swamis, musicians and dope heads repeatedly pontificate that "The Moment is Now", "Seek Enlightenment", "Brace Uncertainty", "Change Your Attitude", "Espouse Constant Positivity", "Live Like You're Dying", "Work Hard, But Let It Be", "Detach!", "Lose control!  Be free!"  Oh man. 

My own interpretation, "Freakin Live a Little!"

So what better way to practice what they preach with a little...or maybe a lot...of Prosecco Spumante!  Or for the less bubbly, less in tune with their inner psycho, a glass of Frizzante, Italia's less sparkling variety. 

No boozer by any means but I do enjoy a little frizzy and an occasional belt and cackle of "ehrrr body in da club gettin tipsy!"  And for some reason, I savor the flavor of Prosecco (and its snazzier French bien amie, Champagne).  With its overtures of any combination of citrus, lemon, melon, apple, white peach, apricot, almonds or honey (aka the entire produce section), this fermented group of white grapes from the Veneto region classifies as a par-taaay in your mouth, even sans accompaniment.

Served chilled, Prosecco finds itself in bars, clubs and restaurantes all over the world and refreshes the palate and mood for a very spritzy economic exchange.  Fermented in large community friendly tanks, Italy's famous bubbly proves much cheaper than its high-maintenance friend, Champagne, which requires each individual bottle be turned then massaged, caressed, cajoled, whispered sweet nothings too and yes begs apologies for the minutest transgression.  Alas, the price for the French experience of drops of nectar from the gods on those parched, dry lips.  So while in Italy, at least, I stick to my down-to-earth friend and loyal companion, Prosecco. 

Of course, consume your fill of Italy's sparkling best wherever you reside but at some point vow to find your spiritual bliss in this country of renaissance with a little bottle of effervescence.

Transcendental Juice of the Day: 

Don't worry, be happy. 

Celebrate with Frizzante. 

And when all else fails, choose Spumante!

Salute Italia!