Travel Log, Part Four

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I watch the best movies on planes. Or rather I watch movies on planes. Otherwise, I have a hard time sitting still. Maybe it's because of my chatty couch aka a couch that is only good for perching with cocktail chatter is the most uncomfortable place to lounge in the entire world, but my movie ADD could also be attributed that when I'm at my apartment, I start ironing or worse, thinking. Or maybe it is because airlines do a better job picking movies than I do, and they show edited versions. It's relaxing to watch movies dropped to the PG plane. Airplanes are my refuge. Planes headed west specifically because I sleep on transatlantic flights going east. No reason to destroy the first day of whatever being the walking dead. But west. Oh I love west.

On a flight west, I once watched What Happens in Vegas. Hilarious flick. So good, in fact, I watched it twice the same flight. Cringed, winced, jerked away from the violence (my seat partner loved me) all through Affleck's amazing Town. Sobbed, heaved embarrassingly through Bucket List...ah Morgan Freeman. This trip, (in a surprise move because it is totally unrealistic and definitely corny) I cried at the end of a terrible Eddie Murphy movie where thanks to a failed book deal with a guru, the dastardly book agent finds his soul and refinds his family after becoming metaphorically chained to a tree. When he utters a word, a leaf falls and when the leaves are all gone, uh oh.

On the heels of that movie, I grinned like the very young silly girl I am too old to be watching some rom-act-ick. Is that what one calls a romance + action flick? Starring Reese Witherspoon and two really good-looking guys she's choosing between who happen to be best friends and CIA agents. Bliss.

Forgot how much I love flying. Before the movies started, I outlined a 10-year life plan for myself. Things I can actually control and should be controlling. On the list was to take a metal working class and own real estate (I just renewed my apartment lease). Honesty is easier to reach when trapped in the aluminum hull of a speeding airplane. I love flying even when it's coach and that's saying something.

Travel Log, Part Three

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Most amazing meal last night in an old palazzo. A bistro. The waitress took good care of me and made local suggestions that made the night. Had two different wine pairings, one a Sicilian with an appetizer of anchovy crostini (anchovies frozen, marinated in lemon and vinegar). Then an Emilia Romagna paired with my main course of John Dory with capers and porcini mushrooms in a potato butter (sure there was tons of butter) sauce. It was divine. Dessert? I wanted the panna cotta but she gave this little "ehhh" and suggested the homemade crema ice cream with local white peaches. Thank goodness for experts. It was divine. Read some of Julian Barnes Sense of an Ending and topped the evening off w a decaf espresso.

Walking home I toured the city center. It was magical in the darkness with Romanesque buildings rising up and people everywhere in passeggiata. Italian people. No other Americans. No English. I haven't been somewhere this authentic since.....?? Lots of bicycles too.

Morning -- made the mistake of posting on Facebook about my parking ticket. Social media fail or as MJ posted #humblehorn. Ha. He's totally right. What happens when you travel alone. I am in possession of a 39 euro parking ticket for who knows what. Sweet little man manning the hotel last night helped me move the car and access the internet. Still working on B's project.

This morning, the most delightful prima colazione spread. Had grilled veggies and fruit. Some yogurt. But best of all was the coffee served americano in its own small ceramic pitcher with a matching pitcher of milk. The man serving breakfast parle niente inglese. I love it. No one in the breakfast room is speaking English.

Off to the sites. Then off to Ravenna.

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Este Castle -- magnificent ceilings and staffed by darling ancient museum relics ie the guards. Practically a retirement home. Excellent informative displays.

Smell of cookies being baked. Sound of piano practice. Ferrara is known for its gardens.

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Driving to Ravenna through the eastern Italy. Passing by vineyards that have sunscreens for grapevines. Who knew?

Radio playing: “Don't worry, be happy”

### Ravenna

Most industrial, port city.

Mosaics were incredible and not to hate but maybe in too good of condition to be from 6th century?

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I had the most ridiculously ridiculous travel from Ravenna in car. Two tries to fill up w gas at Venice airport. Exorbitant taxi ride from airport to public ferry where I had to buy another ticket. Get dropped off one five minute walk and two pedestrian bridges away from the hotel, loaded down with my idea of low maintenance: one stuffed LL Bean camouflage tote and a red rolling bag that died on the trip. The handle broke somewhere between Ferrara and Ravenna. I shuffle along looking absolutely ridiculous. Sweat pouring down my face. Smile affixed so firmly that it is a grimace. Once checked in, this old American fatty at the hotel wanted to chat with me, and I had had just enough. I pretended to be Italian.

### Venice

Hotel Mulino Sticky was hilarious. Like an American Disneyland plopped across from Piazza San Marco. Everyone speaks English. It is truly tourist central. First few days of that were wonderful, like jetting home to familiarity, but then became annoying. WAS and MH were most amazing company. Tiramisu at midnight on the rooftop bar because W used her "sexy voice" on Francesco. Visited to the Ghetto on Saturday. Note to self, quietest place to be found in the city during high tourist season is Jewish quarter on the Sabbath. After the ghetto, I toured the Dogana, Francois Pinault’s art collection in a converted customs house by Tadao Ando. The redo was spectacular. My favorite room encased two enormous canvases by Julie Mehretu. Had to call E.

M and S's drinks on Fri were thrown by M's godmother who was charming but wore no makeup. The hotel was a fifteen minute walk from Saint Mark’s Square and totally midcentury modern. Reminded me of the interior of the UN in New York.

Friday, they went to the rehearsal dinner. I ate dinner at Harry's Dolci overlooking the stretch of water between Giudecca island and Venice. Watched the sun set and the colors change.  Watched the little fatty Midwestern family of four gorge on pasta and lick their lips on dessert. Watched the chic French family move between English and French as they gorged on pasta and licked their lips on dessert. Biased.

Saturday's wedding was gorgeous. At the Hotel Bauer. Elegant, small, unpretentious. W read a Pablo Neruda’s poem. M and S wrote their own vows.

Sunday brunch at the Danieli terrace. Four flights up over looking the canal. Magical view. Lots of laughing too with W and M. I forget how much I love laughing.

### Verona

Hotel was cool. Old 17th century villa filled with hyper modern art. An astounding number of naked women in the art and a definite bias against naked men. Had never seen Damien Hirst's butterfly series and enjoyed it. More Jeff Koons whom I will never understand as more than a marketing sensationalist. Anish Kapoor sculpture and a photo of that performance artist, Marina Abramovic (sp?) clutching her naked breasts. The color punctuation of the toiletries, napkins, slippers, and hotel accessories were fantastic. Arrayed in wild bright colors. But otherwise, I didn't think the staff friendly. The hotel is too expensive not to lose points for being snobby and aloof.

Opera season in Verona. The arena is open air, Roman and huge. It holds 20,000 people. It was a spectacular setting for a spectacular evening. We started the evening with everyone lighting candles in the tradition of when Verdi's performances were first presented, and since Aida is set in Egypt, the lights of all the candles flickered illuminating a stage set with two 30 foot tall obelisks and a lion.

The opera was spectacular.

Travel Log, Part Two

On the plane and a dinner update: plastic tray with faux wood veneer paneling. Nice touch. The veneer is slightly sticky and acts as an anchor for the food packages. Who said the airlines ignore coach? White roll is cold and dense, only appropriate to use as a catapult. Pasta is hot, yes, but also a benchmark to assure that everything I taste in Italy is judged divine. Salad was surprisingly tasty. Well, tomatoes yes. Iceberg lettuce, no. Normally I don't eat plane food. Nasty depository for preservatives, but solo journeying is different. The social component of this meal next to my cheery seat companion could prove more promising than the next five meals where I dine alone. Bottoms up and forks attack! Said jolly seat companion left nothing but the cinnamon brownie. He made a poor decision. It was delicious.

I'm settling back into an alcohol glow. Reading a back issue of the New Yorker and dying to use the bathroom. Just have to wait on these nice dyed-blonde Southern ladies to come remove my tray.  

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At my first restaurant. There are three fishes on the plate. Painted on the plate. It also smells like fish. The restaurant fronts a canal but I'm outside of Venice somewhere that will eventually show up on my credit card. I ordered in Italian which means that I may or may not know what I got. Definitely ended up with a mezzo litro of aqua con gas and a quartino of prosecco. Fortuitous beginnings.

There's an immediacy to dining in Italy. Well, not after you order. Unlike the States where food magically appears moments after ordering, at Trattoria Marina, somewhere near Venice off some canal, I waited 15 minutes while they made my tagliolini neri with seafood. Amazing how food vocabulary has stayed with me. I remember my shoe size too: trentotto. The pasta dish arrived. A black heap of steaming linguini and seafood. Only color was three basil leaves of garnish. It was divine. When they took it away, I heard water run moments later. Immediately, they cook your meal, immediately they bring it to you when ready, and immediately they wash the dishes when they take it away. And the bill? 14 euros. This is true farm to table dining, an art that the Italians never lost.

I've made it to Ferrara, checked in at the Duchessa Isabella, and napped. The autoroute was unremarkable, but I did find Villa Piselli, a remarkable Palladian mansion. Turns out the Venetians have their own Loire Valley. They built mansions along the canal, vacation homes from Venice. This one housed Napoleon, the exiled Spanish royal family, and now is a museum. The grounds were spectacular, modeled on a French garden with stables in the far and a maze (that I got lost in.) It's hard to imagine that boxwood could give so much stress, but I did not make it out till a guide found me. To the right. Should have struck out going right.

I hoped to take a charming walk in Ferrara. My plans were stymied by a slimy dog who got friendly at the park and wiped his drooly snout all over my pants before his owner came up, "Max! 'Scuzi." Trying to be a good sport but yuck. Nor do I have enough clothes to be destroying them 5 minutes after donning. Retreated to the bigger city square with a marble pedestaled monument and youth congregating. Was refused a student discount because I'm over 25 today. Not sure I belong on this square either.

Travel Log, Part One

Here's the thing about a solo vacation: disruptions become part of the narrative rather than an inconvenience. If all went according to plan, I would succumb to a terrible loneliness. Surprise masked as uncertainty gives life its flavor, and uncertainty is at its very minimum when traveling alone. This is how I framed my flight to Venice being delayed four hours when the terminal was evacuated because of a fuel spill.

I departed my overpriced but well-located downtown apartment this morning and spent my ride to the airport in the company of an Austin cabbie. 32 years he's lived in Austin. Like my current trajectory, he came for a few years and never left. Along Riverside, he pointed out all the less expensive options where I could live. I'm afraid I egged him on: why wouldn't asking a cab driver reveal the next secret sweet spot for Austin's real estate boom? This is what I learned in two years in b school: capitalize on others' expertise.

Austin is an interesting town: one of the few places you can move to from New York City where people respond to your news with wide eyes, "Oh, I've heard Austin is really cool." Before the 80s, this was a sleepy capital city where the state legislature met for six months every two years and 40,000 undergrads flowed in and out of town like salmon. Not till the tech boom and music discovered Austin did Austin explode into a hip chic "see and be seen." One of my favorite characterizations is "Austin, where young people go to retire." Is this what I aspire to? A town where flip flops and jean are always appropriate, and newly minted tech millionaires pair the that look with perfectly pressed (probably Brooks Brothers no-iron) button downs and artfully tussled hair? It's a hard town to finagle a black tie moment, and stilettos sit in the closet with hurt feelings.

This trip to Venice was orchestrated out of raw necessity. I graduated from grad school in May and desperately craved adventure. One can only exploit borrowing privileges at the Austin Public Library and $12 tennis clinics at Caswell from 12pm to 1pm --held outside -- Monday, Wednesdays, and Fridays before wanting to pull a Sylvia Plath even if only to be newsworthy. Voila! My friend M is marrying S in a ceremony in Venice...Venice, Italy. My father: "Who is that? I've never heard you mention her." Ahem, my dear friend M was getting married to S in Venice this weekend. I really like M. It’s fun to meet people when you are older and to just like them. To know that it will be hard to stay in frequent touch but that you will always fall back into a comfortable happy routine when you do see each other. A few years ago, M hooked me up with an appointment with her family friend, an orthopedic surgeon in NYC, when all the other doctor options I knew of declined to see me (very busy schedules) and directed me to the ER. Then this past summer while we were both in London, we spent quality time over pints in an English pub analyzing men. She must have done a better job of analysis as she's about to enter wedded bliss, and I'm juggling a non-committal, a voice, a wishy-washer, and a too-busy-being-fabulous.

Normally my friend W is prime for transatlantic adventures that maximize fun and minimize impact on the credit card statement, but she's currently engaged.....to medical school rotations as well as a very fun rather new love interest named M. Ack, being a good sport about your friends' good fortunes in love is a chore.

This is how I find myself on a Delta flight next to a very large gentleman ("I apologize in advance for every time I elbow you; they don't make this plane appropriately sized for normal people") watching The Marigold Hotel drinking a positively enormous plastic glass of subpar red wine on my way to a solo vacation. This is also why I don't begrudge the five-hour delay with four Atlanta firemen evacuating my gate at ATL. First there was a fuel spill on the airplane. Then there were the thunderstorms that tore through the airport. It is the journey, not the destination! Plus I had a lovely front row seat just behind huge glass windows to observe the drama. And, oh yes, credit where credit is due: my amex card got me into the Delta club with free snacks and drinks as well as plenty of outlets for my six “must have” electronic devices. #ModernTravel.

Gabriella Capucci -- Buenos Aires

In the Recoleta section of Buenos Aires is the most delightful accessories shop, Gabriella Capucci. I only just restrained myself from coming home with a headdress but did purchase two pairs of earrings. The price point is quite exceptional, and Gabriella's sense of fancy and flair is unparalleled even for a city known for being lighthearted and fun-focused.