Category: Traveling

Tale of the ’Tankerous Traveler

Flight is quieter back here, the waitress in the sky is settling herself into one of the regular seats. One that I have to walk right by. She’s done handing out the Snack Bars and is having a little breakfast herself. Except LOOK WHAT SHE’S HAVING EVERYBODY! Juice! Scrambled eggs! Fresh fruit!

A C T · O N E

SOMEWHERE OVER BUFFALO, New York—“Hi, I’m in the seat RIGHT BEHIND YOU and I was wondering if you could either not talk to each other ACROSS THE FREAKIN’ AISLE AT THE TOP OF YOUR LUNGS or move into empty seats beside either of you so you could talk at normal volume. What do you think? Oh, one other thing Would you mind terribly if I asked if YOU KNOW HOW LOUD YOU ARE TALKING? Or even how much? Does the altitude affect how often you come up for air, just curious. And I have to tell you: The data handling capacity of those new units you just installed back at the home office are fascinating, no, I really I mean it. I had honestly hoped to get some sleep here on this flight and thanks to your sparkling conversation, I got over that. I even started thinking about trying to maybe watch some movie BUT YOU ARE TALKING SO LOUD I CAN NOT HEAR THE MOVIE. WITH THE HEADSETS ON. AND THE VOLUME ON HIGH. Well, let me say your conversation, every word of it has REALLY MOVED ME. I see there is an empty seat towards the back and hopefully, back there, I might not be able to HEAR EVERY SINGLE SYLLABLE YOU’RE YELLING BACK AND FORTH AT EACH OTHER ACROSS THE AISLE way back there. Ok, have a nice day.”

A C T · T W O

What the heck. I’m up. Now. I’m headed toward the back anyway. I might as well check out the facilities. Did I say it was an early morning flight? Very. I got up at 3 or so this morning. To catch the four thirty AM bus to Boston. Do you know that buses run at that time of day? And this one was full? And then after the groggy dark bus ride to the airport, I caught this flight. The 8 AM Boston to Chicago. Well, at least we had breakfast. And what a breakfast it was. One Quaker Snack Bar. Probably a free sampler promo gimme donated by Mr.Quaker himself. Sort of like the Rice Crispy Marshmallow Treats that everyone in America thought were so ripping good at bridge parties in the late 60s. So, anyway, I’ve made the bathroom sink make that great space age sucking noise, and I’m out past the fold-y door, making my way to my new seat in the way back of the plane. Flight is quieter back here, the waitress in the sky is settling herself into one of the regular seats. One that I have to walk right by. She’s done handing out the Snack Bars and is having a little breakfast herself. Except LOOK WHAT SHE’S HAVING EVERYBODY! Juice! Scrambled eggs! Fresh fruit! How about that? True story. American Airlines flt 1045, 8:33AM, Boston to Chicago/OHare. On a MD-80 jet, Thursday, Jan. 26th, 2006.

And people wonder why I am ‘tankerous early in the morning.

Iowa, Florence, Torino. Slightly ahead of the travel loop on this one?

Swell article called Master Class, about a program for adults that want to get intouch with their inter Renaissance Person, artistically speaking. Sounded like so much fun. I could about half see myself running away from the circus and doing something like that.

I know, I know. Many of you were probably laughing haha at my westwardho adventures. Because going west to the Great Plains means I’m obviously not going East to Umbria. Up to where you saw the part about being backstage with the Rolling Stones and Mom’s Apple Rubarb Pie. But we did something else we often do there. Natural as falling out of bed. We got burgers at Taylor’s Maid Rite in Marshalltown. What? You haven’t BEEN to Taylor’s? Nor Marshalltown?

Don’t tell that to the editors of Travel+Leisure. The latest issue (Travel+Leisure March 06) just came in yesterday’s mail. And what to my wondering eyes did appear, but two, full-page photos of Taylor’s Maid Rite, in glorious color. I did not know we were being trendy to go there. We usually just go when we are hungry.

The article describes Taylor’s with this superlative: ”Taylor’s could be the oddest restaurant in the State. Perhaps the Nation.” Ok. Been there. Done that. Got the Tcup, as you can see. (the other side of it says ”. . . but come back again”) The article went on to say ”Their signature dish, loose meat on a white bun — resembles something created in a VA hospital during a catastrophic budget crunch”. Well. Maybe to someone non Native, like the author. He should be so lucky as to be on the receiving end of the income stream the place has been generating for the Taylor family since 1928. Must be doing something Rite.

But lets talk ambience. Old National Geographic maps on the wall that have been there at least since the 1960s. A single U-shaped, Formica-topped counter, the pattern almost worn off. Plus some close packed chrome and red vinyl stools. Normally a bottom planted firmly on every stool. iIts not unusual, or even noteworthy, to have one, two or three people standing behind each stool. The standees are standing, waiting for the sitters to eat up, get up and get out, already. This is, of course, the opposite of Italy’s laudable Slow Food concept. This is efficiency taken to almost dizzyingly poetic heights. There is not even a menu. The name Maid Rite (the name of the burger) says it all. Want a Maid Rite or not? If you do, sit down. If you don’t, keep moving. No swishy fruit salads or omnipresent French/Freedom Fries, or anything really to distract you from the business at hand. There are Maid Rites, a limited selection of drinks, and pie. Homemade, each and every slice. When I was in there last week it looked like you could have any kind you wanted. As long as it was peach. Decision, decision. Oh, and the efficiency of limited selection extends to your choice of condiments. Mustard. Onion, Pickle. Period. You weren’t really thinking about asking for Ketchup, were you? You’ll never pass for a native that way!

FLORENCE/FIRENZE—Rubbing elbows with Marshalltown and trying to horn in on its cachet in this great issue of Travel+Leisure was that quintessential Tuscan town of Florence/Firenze. Swell article called Master Class, about a program for adults that want to get intouch with their inter Renaissance Person, artistically speaking. Sounded like so much fun. I could about half see myself running away from the circus and doing something like that.

TORINO—And further speaking of Italy. How ’bout those Olympics? Will someone please make the announcers quit saying ”Tur-rin”. It just sounds like something bad. Some of the poor things act all offended. As if the town made up the name Torino just to be cute and/or to mess with them. And that is from people reporting ”live” from Torino where they can see signs and maps and everything. Sigh.

Our dear friend Roberta (one of our Italian daughters) lives in Torino. We love her, we love Torino, been there many times over the years. We even got to see the Shroud of Turin with her. And because of her. It is only out once every 25 years or so, and then only for a few days. Roberta is in tourism and she made sure we went way to the head of the line and then right up to say hi to the Shroud itself. Coming through! But for the Olympics, I opened up a big case of the claustrophobias and in the end talked myself out of going. And I LIKE winter sports. I’ve had a downhill ski racing team for several years, and STILL didn’t sign up for this mega event. After reading Roberta’s note, I was sorry I didn’t go for it. Here is her report straight from downtown Torino, by a lifelong native:

Ciao Stew,
Qui tutto bene, Torino é bellissima piena di vita e di
allegria. Questa sera andrò a vedere una partita di Hockey femminile
Finlandia contro USA, ovviamente farò il tifo per gli USA. É un
peccato che tu non possa essere qui a goderti questo bellissimo
spettacolo, Torino é rinata, tutto é perfetto e poi ci sono tanti
turisti da tutti i Paesi del mondo che portano tanto colore e allegria.

She says: Dear Stew, Everything here is fine, Torino is just beautiful, so full of life and happiness. This evening I am going to the girl’s hockey game, the one between USA and Finland. Obviously I will be rooting for the USA. It is a shame that you are not here to enjoy this beautiful event. Torino is reborn, everything is perfect and there are so many tourists here from everyplace in the world, bringing with them so much color and happiness.

Regrets. I’ve had a few. But then again.

NEXT STOP, UMBRIA. GOING DUTCH?

To quote the Italian designer Valentino: “ . . . I must go. It is not convenient. Perhaps it is not right. But this garden must be seen. There are many things you have to do in life, but you cannot ignore the roses.

We typically go to Umbria via London or Munich or Paris. But London is having a jet fuel issue and threatening to raise Cain with flights originating in the US. Airline pouting and politics. So, maybe this time, we are thinking, we will go via Amsterdam. Kind Dutch people have emailed us here at SeeYouInItaly extolling the charms of their town outside Amsterdam named Vreeland. Never been there. Never got the Tshirt. But the perfect meld of Dutch and Italian is happening now in honor of the 400th anniversary of Rembrandt’s birth and one of the highlights of the celebration is a massive Rembrandt—Carravaggio show at the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam. That has to Gogh on our list. And then, la nostra cara Panicale. To see how my Umbrian roses do grow. This photo was taken last April by our good friends the Lambarts, from Steamboat Springs, Colorado. Nico and I have been tending these roses for several years but I have only seen them in bloom, in photos. Hope to correct that this year!

To quote the Italian designer Valentino: “ . . . I must go. It is not convenient. Perhaps it is not right. But this garden must be seen. There are many things you have to do in life, but you cannot ignore the roses. When they demand to be seen, one simply has no choice but to go to them.” Words to live by, whenever possible.

FLYING BACK THROUGH TIME. AND SPACE.

A bit surreal overall but, incredibly, it seems that WAS us backstage, in the same room with the Rolling Stones, eating their lobster ravioli, their long white asparagus with roasted peppers, their polenta, sampling their red wine and dining on and on in a meaningful and mostly Italian way.

IOWA, VIA OMAHA—Several times, this trip felt like flipping through a book from back, to front. When you start by knowing how it ends. And end at the very beginning when you know nothing at all. I am flying west today. Across the country. And, it feels like, across time.

The captain says &ldquo’Well, it is now 9:30 a.m. here in Chicago. You can set your watches back for Central Standard Time if you like”. I wind mine back one hour. And several years. Before Umbria. Before Maine. There was Chicago. I found myself here in graduate school. Found my wife too. And my first job. Good old Chicago.

Next stop, Omaha. Rent a car and follow the signs to Des Moines. Now the video replay screen on my Mental Time Machine is a blur of yearbook pictures, parties, nervous dates and proms. I see the exit signs for Drake, I slow down but don’t stop. I always think I will. But I haven’t yet. Past Des Moines and rewinding faster now. My life flashing before my eyes in reverse chronological order. Am getting younger in the process? Does this kind of time tripping work like that? I know the answer to that one. But, ahead I see there are signs we’re closing in on Conrad. Where we can go far, far back in time. Conrad, full of pioneer ancestors who settled the town. And left their family names on everyone in town and on rows of granite in the cemetery. I know all their names. I recognize their ever-serious, black and white faces looking back at me from frames on aunts’ and uncles’ mantles and bookshelves. High school memories are bubbling up and drowning out college now. There is Kathy’s driveway. The school bus picked her up there every morning, right after I got on. She lives there still, but I would not know her. Not now. I only know the person she was, then. Our farm. Our mailbox, on its post, two miles from Grandpa Stewart’s farm and his mailbox.

Mom and Dad. Coffee in the kitchen. Something baking in the oven. This is the house I was raised in. I’m all the way back now. I’m home. Is that apple rubarb pie for me?

HOW TO EAT LIKE A STONE

OMAHA— Surely some of the rewind and flashback feeling of the trip stems from one of the reasons for the trip: The Stones. The Rolling Stones are playing in the Midwest. Just like they did in 1967. I did not see them in 1967. But I will fix that oversight in 2006. Can the same stones really have played both those dates here?


A bit surreal overall but, incredibly, it seems that WAS us backstage, in the same room with the Rolling Stones, eating their lobster ravioli, their long white asparagus with roasted peppers, their polenta, sampling their red wine and dining on and on in a meaningful and mostly Italian way. The Italian influences in their huge spread of gourmet food far outweighed the occasional British classics like Shepard’s Pie.

Yes, we were in their inter santo santorum the “Rattlesnake Inn”. Just as a serious hanger on. Not any doing of my own. But tickled nonetheless just to be in their hospitality suite with them. No, we did not get to actually touch, talk or even photo. At a certain point, the tables were pushed back, the Stones handlers rushed them in a for a Grip and Grin Official Photo with their opening act, Brooks&Dunn. And then they rolled those Stones right out of the room and onto the stage. Of course, I had my camera with me! And you know I wanted to take pictures. But, I almost got that trusty Olympus taken away with the one spy photo you see here from the Stones sound check. The venue looked empty except for the Stones on their massive stage. I took one shot, no flash and headset-wearing Men in Black rained down on me, commando style. From the rafters? I do not know where they came from. But they came. They stoically re-explained the subtle meaning hidden in the Absolutely NO Cameras Allowed signs posted around the auditorium. Ok, ok, all right, already. I get it. The passes we had, shown here, really parted the waters. Well, right up to the part about the cameras.

Thank you Brother in Law for breaking me into the epicenter, the very heart of rock and roll!

London to Limestone Express?

Being the shallow, easily impressed outoftowners, that we have proven ourselves to be, I loved seeing a RED Rolls Royce (no, I did not know they painted them that color, either) parked right under our windows. Rolls or not, we felt Positively Royal the whole time we were there.

LONDON, England—No, London-Limestone is never going to replace Venice-Istanbul on the Orient Express. But there these two very different destinations were in the same week on our travel calendar recently. What a long, strange trip through time and space it was. The contrasts were just so extreme and so obvious because we visited them back to back. In a few day’s time we saw one daughter at the center of the universe — balmy, temperate, downtown London. And a couple days later we saw the other daughter at one of the universe’s furthest flung and most likely to be frozen solid outposts — Limestone, Maine. Where? Limestone, Maine. No, really. Yes, really. Even though we live in Maine, Limestone, Maine is seven hours north of us. Could anything sound more remote? Or actually be?

CROSS CONTINENTAL DAY TRIPPING

LONDON—Have you ever taken the flight over the pond during the day? This works swell for my body clock. We leave Boston at 8 am. And hit London at 7 pm. Versus the killer overnight where we arrive at 5 or 6 am, hours before your hotel is ready for you. On a normal, “work day” in Maine we would be leaving our office at five pm. On this travel day, at that same time of day, it was 10 pm in London’s East End, and we were in an orange and black striped Indy club (The Urban Bar) trying to talk over impossibly loud music. Wiley’s boyfriend Daniel is the bass player in a rock band, and we wanted to see and hear his gig. Hearing it was not a problem at all. Hearing anything afterwards, another subject entirely. So. There we were. Fresh as Daisies because our bodies said Heck, it’s Five in the Afternoon. Let’s Rock.

WILL WE LIKE THE SUBURBS OF LONDON?
WELL, I THINK HAROLD WOOD.

Daniel’s family has a new home in the far outskirts of London in a town called Harold Wood. And we wanted to experience a bit of that, too. They found us a place near them called, bizarrely enough to me, New World Hotel.
And here I thought England was part of the Old World. No Matter. It was the quintessential Tudor manse drowning in Charm and Class. It even had a formal “Italian Garden,” and our huge, huge antique-laden room had organic-themed, Art Nouveau styled, leaded glass windows, looking right out on the garden. In answer to your unasked question – because you are way too polite to ask, really – it was 89 GBP “pounds” a night. I’ve paid twice that in downtown London and gotten rooms smaller than this room’s marble clad bathroom. Being the shallow, easily impressed outoftowners, that we have proven ourselves to be, I loved seeing a RED Rolls Royce (no, I did not know they painted them that color, either) parked right under our windows. Rolls or not, we felt Positively Royal the whole time we were there. Che shock. I know it was way off-season, but even so, the price seemed incredibly fair, the people so nice, we did not want the magic moments to end. We really wished we could spend an other night. I checked with the front desk. Our room was available. So we grabbed the moment and stayed.

SPOTTED DICK AND KING HAROLD

The town of Harold Wood is pretty. And, pretty idyllic. Especially when you consider that it is part of one of the major cities of the world. It is clearly urban. But urbane as well. To get to Daniel’s house you get off the train right in the town center. Walk down the main street and you almost feel like you are on a country lane. A couple cars, a taxi, a horse and rider, two bicyclers constituted the traffic on our first walk through town. In the block long village center we couldn’t help notice the strangely named Laughter and Tears Flower Shoppe (weddings and funerals, you figure out which is laughter which is tears, I suppose) an Asian take-out called Bamboo Garden, a great Indian restaurant which we sampled and loved: Bombay Palace, and a great “local” King Harold pub that looks right out of the movies stucco’ed with many chimneys and gilded signs. Spotted Dick by the way, is one of those classic, bizarrely named desserts you should be able to get in any good British pub. We Puritan Americans would call this dish something wild like Raisin Cake with Creme Sauce. All this wonderful English-ness is to be found in the single block of Harold Wood outside the train station. A half a block further on is their house. At the other end of the rail line, all of London.

WHEN IN ROME

Don’t think that we got so caught up in the rural life that we forgot about London. We do what right thinking people should do and follow ”a local native” to the best. We always make sure we find our Panicalese friend Francesco when we are in London. His famous Umbria Rentals web site is the reason we have a home in Italy and specifically in Panicale. If you have not been to the site, run there quickly. So much information about the area of Umbria around Panicale. Francesco is from Panicale, but he is half Swedish and totally uber-global, man about town. No matter what the town. Londontown, Cape Town, China Town and every place in between. He and his British girl friend Alison, travel constantly but always come back to London so they can set us straight on hot new plays, museum openings and the best new restaurants. They seem to have fun surprises to share with us every time we come to town. We now have blind faith in their awesome recommendations.

The world is Francesco’s oyster and he eats up the oysters and everything else London has to offer, with relish. But, let’s talk about British food for a moment, shall we? For generations “English Food” had a big ugh factor going for it and that is about all. Not anymore. Not if you follow someone like Francesco around town. We’ve eaten Moroccan with him, Turkish, Indian, Italian of course, of course and this time Japanese. I know what you are thinking: I saw that yawn. I am the same way. I often think that all Japanese restaurants get the same five gallon buckets of generic goop off the same truck. OK, put some cashews in that one and some pea pods in the other one. Close enough. Boring as it can be, it is somewhat addictive and we find ourselves needing a fix of Thai or Chinese or something a couple times a month.

OK. CAN YOU SAY OKONOMI?

Well, neither can I. But this kind of Japanese food is a revelation. Especially in the way we were able to sampled it at the Abeno Okonomi-yaki , a block from the British Museum. I Googled them (okonomi london) when we got home and it appears this is London’s ONLY Okonomi-yaki style restaurant. I saw one review that said it was the only one in EUROPE. Oh, us tourists from the wilds of Maine and Umbria are out on the leading culinary edge now! Tiny tables with hotplates built in them like the Benihana’s of old. Fresh, fresh ingredients of veggie and meat variety, your choice, cut up before you and made into an awesome something. Can I call it a pancake? Maybe. Some people call Okonomi an omelette, but I remember eggs being an option that only showed up in some items on the menu. Regardless, there is some light, light batter involved as it all holds together quite nicely. Here are some of the things we sampled but had never seen on Asian menus before: Furikake On, Gyoza, Inaka DX and the ever-popular Nasu. Have you ever? I, certainly, had not. After cooking the pancake patty a bit, they put a shiny metal lid over it, let it cook under that for a short time and then decorated it with sauces, spices, fish flakes, and oh, my. Now THAT is what I call some outrageous good British food.

Coming up next: The Frozen North portion of our trip. After that, Ferraris in the Piazza. Could we interest you in something in red? Stay tuned.