Not being home for a few months combined with the physical and psychological distance of several oceans between me and my ladies left us all feeling like my time away was much longer. Our initial reunion in Rome’s Fiumincno Airport (I had spent the previous night in Rome) was joyous, but tempered by the girls’ travel fatigue. They are no more enthusiastic travelers (in the sense of dealing with jet lag and tiredness while schlepping around from one city to the next while doing a million things in each place) than the Pope is a Sikh. They have great attitudes and are often enthusiastic, but the gap in perception of self inflicted discomfort and road weariness between us is tremendous. No matter, we retooled our trip to reduce the constant on-the-go feel of it, and ended up having a great vacation.

Our first days in Rome reunited me with one of my favorite homes away from home: The Daphne B&B. I originally stayed there when my then girlfriend, Katie, and I went on an Italian holiday several years ago. On that trip we spent several nights there, and could not have been happier. The inn is owned by a young couple (she is from Boca Raton while he is from Rome), who completely understand what personal service is all about. One of their many flourishes of hospitality occurs at check in when they give you a cell phone from which you can receive free incoming calls as well as call them at any time for directions, help, or as I often have asked, for restaurant recommendations. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and having their full time assistance is crucial in maximizing our time in one of the world’s great cities. In the ensuing years from my first stay with them others have taken notice, and I am happy to report that The Daphne has achieved worldwide renown. I don’t get a commission from them, but please do try and stay there next time you are in Rome. You will not be disappointed.

We spent several hours exploring the Vatican Museum (including the Sistine Chapel) and St. Peter’s Basilica with the aid of a private guide (read: best money ever spent). It certainly didn’t help that she was cute as a button and just older than me with a PhD in Roman history! My mother especially enjoyed the amazing reliefs on the ceilings throughout the museum (once Papal apartments and reception rooms), and as always, I was very excited to see Rafael’s frescoes. To walk around a random corner in a random room only to be standing right in front of the School of Athens is thrilling. A few rooms away lies the Sistine Chapel, a masterpiece of art, philosophy, the pondering of our relationship with God, and revenge.

Rome was also the beginning of our epic shopping quest; one which ended unsuccessfully a week and a half later, but nevertheless provided us countless kilometers walked and stores visited. Robin came wanting a funky Italian leather jacket, but soon ditched that goal in favor of a European futbol jersey or some such official get up. In the end neither object was obtained, but nevertheless, the trip’s booty is quite unique and memorable.

For dinner on our second night in Rome we went to Osteria Gusto my favorite restaurant in the whole world. That is a weighty description, and not one taken lightly; rather, I have come to that conclusion after close to ten visits, and it is probably exactly the opposite kind of place than you expect when it comes to a restaurant with that designation. Gusto is light, airy, neither pretentious nor expensive, and is far from your standard destination restaurant. Its appeal lies in its simplicity. The osteria is chill, very chill, with sophisticated Romans (many politicians, philosophers, and artists hang out there) grooving to the perfectly funky lounge mix while drinking and eating, as it should be. The prosciutto platters are sublime while the cheese selection is mind boggling when combined with great bread and simple yet depth defying honeys, you have a recipe for enjoyment. They also serve incredible Roman cuisine, something that is increasingly hard to find, even in Rome. My mom and Robin loved it, and my little sister is now fully aware of prosciutto as a delicacy, something all too rare among the Jewish women in my life!

From Rome we flew to Catania, rented a Lancia station wagon (a little station wagon with a big heart) and drove up the coast of the Ionian See to the resort town of Taormina. Taormina is perched on the rocky cliffs overlooking the sparkling blue waters, and is nestled right in between the snowcapped slopes of Mt. Etna (Europe’s most active volcano) and the sea. Arriving there at night was a bit of a harrowing driving experience for my mom, but she handled those streets (read: alleyways) like a pro as they zigzagged up the steep slopes. We spent the evening walking down Taormina’s main street, enjoying the relaxed pace of a resort town in the off-season, and by having both gelato and pastries. And so began Robin’s appreciation of Italian pastries. Robin enjoyed most everything on the trip, but her multiple pastries per day must have been the highlight. I have no idea how such a small girl puts away so many pastries, but she did, and with gusto. Nary a bakery was passed (read: at least one or two per block) that we didn’t go in so that Robin could take stock of its potential pastry offerings. If nothing else, going back to the States is going to be a tough transition, it being the land of Dunkin’ Donuts (not that I have anything against them, but they can’t compare to Italian pastries).

Waking up to a view of the sea and mountain was amazing, and I took advantage of my family’s hibernatory sleeping pattern by walking through the still sleeping town (which sounds absolutely jovial until you consider the countless steps navigated as I felt like an ibex navigating the cliffs. Walking through a small Italian town brings to mind the simple joys in life, simple joys we have so often sidestepped in the name of progress.

That afternoon saw us drive across the island of Sicily, to it’s capital city, Palermo, but not before we had a little roadside tailgate full of Italy’s delights: pastries (of course!), buffalo mozzarella, fresh fruits, and a variety of olives.

The rest of the day was spent traversing Sicily, Sicilian drivers and all. Sicilians are too drivers the way that the French are to soldiers: the worst. I apologize if any of you are French, or Sicilian for that matter, but we’ll let history speak for itself. The drive took us from the autostrada (modern four lane highway) to back country roads full of hairpin turns, and sheep, complete with their ruggedly attractive herders (at least according to my mom).

As feeding time approached, we were all famished, and at the right moment happened upon the perfect trattoria, in the middle of nowhere. Lunch was beyond perfect for our Sicilian immersion. Upon walking in we saw the whole family sitting around a large table enjoying their wares. With my limited Italian and our big appetites we managed to order an array of antipasti and veal that will never be matched for the rest of our lives. Experiences like our lunch (the food, interaction with the proprietor, and the circumstance) make traveling the adventure that it can be when you step off the beaten path of package tours and the biggest sites.

At one point on our drive we stopped and took in the view and pictures on a dramatic hillside. Sicily is beautiful in the way your favorite sneakers are, they may be a bit worn out and dirty, but the essential purpose and vitality remain intact and are thriving. The whole Mafioso component just adds to the gritty yet loveable nature of Sicily. I learned much about the Sicilian Mafioso and the government’s pursuit of them from the old Sicilian man working the night shift at our hotel in Taormina. He spent a long time telling me stories straight out of a Mario Puzzo novel, but oh so true. The best part was that after each sentence in his limited English he asked: “Capito?” Hell, if he would have stroked his chin and said: “Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday…” in his Sicilian accent, I might as well have been in a mafia flick!

By the time we reached Palermo’s mind crunching traffic, aggressiveness, and occasional open hostility, we were all ready to call it a night, but not before finding the “best chicken I’ve ever had,” according to my mother. Not a bad bit of praise for a rotisserie place in Piazza Marina.

The next day we still had our Lancia, so my mom and I decided to drive up to Monreale, a medieval town in the hills overlooking Palermo. We arrived at two-ish to a city so quiet, so deserted; that naked, motorcycle riding yahoos could hoop it up in the central square and not a soul would be there to witness it. We found a small bar that was open, got a lunch wrapped with care, and ate it in the aforementioned square. Slowly, ever so slowly, we witnessed the town’s reawakening. By three the elegantly simple dressed men and women of Monreale woke from their mid-day naps after eating lunch with their families, and reclaimed the city their ancestors had fought for. Our whole time in Italy we had really only been aware of the mid-day break by its limitation of our shopping during those few hours. Seeing it in a small town was remarkably telling, especially considering that just down the hill was Palermo, a city that never sleeps if there ever was one.

Its Duomo is world class with glittering mosaics reminiscent of St. Marks in Venice, but in a much less Byzantine way. The real draw is the cloisters (clois·ter: a continuous covered outdoor walkway built against buildings surrounding a central courtyard or quadrangle, especially in a monastery or college) of the Duomo complex. The 500+ columns of the courtyard were uniquely carved and decorated with mosaics, reflecting the many rulers and styles of the past millennium in Monreale. Pictures are here:

Later that evening Robin and I walked through Palermo, this time on a quest to find a sweater from a Sicilian designer named Costello, that had “Sicily” written across the front. In walking through town we saw a much different side of the city than what we had previously seen, especially having mostly been near the ports and its palazzos. The area we walked through took the edge off of Palermo for me. There were tree lined boulevards alight with a festive glow, major cultural institutions like the symphony orchestra, piazza after piazza, and beautiful people strolling through Palermo as if they were anywhere but. Just when I thought I knew Palermo I was exposed to its genteel side. I anticipate going back there, maybe not soon, but maybe Sicily will be for me like Tuscany is to so many others.

Speaking of northern Italy, we flew to Bergamo after an exhilarating/frightening (depends on who you ask) taxi ride to Palermo’s airport, much of it spent driving straight into oncoming traffic. Bergamo is about an hour outside of Milan, and is as picturesque and relaxed as Italian towns come, especially in comparison to Palermo. I had originally chosen Bergamo for its logistical value in getting us from Sicily to Destination X (which was Istanbul, but due to the schlep factor we scrapped it in favor of heading in the direction of home for the girls and going to Amsterdam). Nevertheless, Bergamo was an absolute stunner. The city is divided in two, the medieval and untouched citta alta, high up on the hill and reachable via a funicular, and the lower city, a more modern but perfectly laid out mini-city. I say mini because it has everything any major city has, but in an easily walkable and digestible portion.

Our stay in Bergamo was elevated by the luxurious and hip accommodations of the Mercure Palazzo Dolci Hotel we stayed in. My mother loved the periwinkle walls of the bedrooms and silver tiled bathrooms, and Robin was a fan of the sumptuous breakfasts (read: good pastry selection) and internet connection. We climbed the bell tower in the citta alta, walked, shopped, laughed, and attended Puccini’s La Boehme at Teatro Donizetti. Not bad for a little town nobody has heard of!

I was earnestly struck by the interactions I so often witnessed between my mom and sister and the residents of the places we visited. First, the vast majority of people we encountered during our travels spoke at least a smattering of English, while Robin and my mom had a nonexistent knowledge of Italian and Dutch. No worries there, but what I found to be so interesting was the way they responded to others speaking poor English or no English to them. In this case I mean interesting in a manner more akin to watching plastic surgery or a train wreck on TV, it is painful to watch, but you have to see what happens next. The girls were like deer caught in the headlights whenever they were spoken to. Before long they were forcing me to ask their questions for them, never mind the fact that my Italian is just slightly better than terrible, which meant that I was usually doing the asking in English. I attribute this cultural timidity to a lack of exposure and an overdependence on me. I took care of every other detail on the trip, so why not have me ask if the maxi pads also come with wings. OK, a slight exaggeration, but you get the point. The highlight of this came when a fellow customer in a nice clothing store came up to my mother, held up a shirt, and started saying something in Italy. Clearly she thought my mother worked there, or was, at least, very knowledgeable about Sisley’s current collection. With a pardoning smile and an apologetic tone my mother kindly looked at the woman and said, “I’m sorry, we don’t speak English.” It took a moment for Robin to point out the ridiculousness of the statement, but once she did, we could not stop laughing, and that line became a punch line for nearly every other encounter over the rest of the trip.

Our final stop was Amsterdam, city of freedom and gateway home for all of us. Due to our change in plans, I reserved our room at a bed and breakfast the day before we arrived, and thus, was hard pressed for appropriate yet affordable accommodation. Well, we ended up getting it… and more! It just so happened that our B&B, The Greenhouse Effect, was more of an ode to the wonders of hydroponics than global warming, and we found ourselves staying in the Mary Jane Room above a typical coffee shop, just a few blocks from the Red Light District. Robin was shocked, embarrassed, and intrigued by the sights and sounds on the streets of our neighborhood, and all the more so because she couldn’t handle being there with my mom! We all had a good time though, and in addition to walking past countless sex shops and peep shows, visited the Anne Frank House and some of Amsterdam’s finer shopping boutiques. That night I took Robin for a walk through the Red Light District, a place she had heard so much about and as a result, had so many preconceptions about, yet did not really have any basis of knowledge. To be honest, walking with Robin past the prostitutes and through the crowds was a highlight, as she realized that the Red Light District was far from as scary or dirty as she had originally imagined. Given, neither of us have any plans to move there, but I can’t help but celebrate the responsible and regulated expression of freedom, especially in the times, our times, of things like the Patriot Act in our continuously less accepting society.

And so, with a day in Amsterdam and more than a week in Italy, our trip came to an end at Schipol Airport. Our goodbye was tearful, and with Robin’s guidance and my mom’s determination to make it to the grocery store before it closed, my ladies made it home on Christmas Eve without a hitch. Thank God.

I doubt we will ever take another vacation as hectic as this one, but it could not have been any more fun. I remain wholeheartedly convinced that travel with friends and family is the best use of one’s funds, bar none.
—
Written at the Greenhouse Effect coffee shop, Amsterdam, The Nederlands, KQ Flight 4141 from Amsterdam to Nairobi, and on my roof in Mombassa, and edited at the Peacock Hotel in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania.

To save you the suspense and me the embarrassment (at least some of it), I will get to the point. After driving a good measure down the fairway to get to the wooden “bridge” (again used generously) and finding his ball, I was reluctant to drive all the way back to the bridge; so, I did the most logical thing (at the time), and decided to drive through it. Take a look at the result:

What’s more: we got our $1 deposit back!

Leaving a meeting in downtown DC, I hailed a cab for the right back to my office on an otherwise schvitsy day. Upon getting in I inquired as to the driver’s well being, and gave him our destination’s coordinates. Then, as if in a surrealistic dream, he began to recite poetry; not pop poetry or even sentimental rhymes, but rather, poetry that came from and spoke to the heart. His recitation was even more dramatic than the situation as he channeled all of his energy into his Kojo Nnamdi like radio voice, while the cab seemed to pilot itself on the fumes of his poetry.

After the first poem I was blown away. After the second I began to drink it in. And in between the poems that came after I tried to find out what this man’s muse was, his inspiration, his motivation. The little he told me added up to this: he came from an abusive household, avoided drugs and street violence, and sixty years later, was expressing himself through poetry to unsuspecting passengers in the back of his poetry fueled taxi cab.

Each poem’s lines, filled with rhymes, coming together to fill the time. I was mesmerized by his poems, captivated by his delivery, and inspired by his belief in the power of a poem. For the life of me I cannot find the text of any of the poems he recited by the likes of jazz inspired Frank Marshall Davis, but here is a poem that captures the spirit of that pleasurable cab ride:

Life is Fine, by Langston Hughes 

I went down to the river,

I set down on the bank.

I tried to think but couldn't,

So I jumped in and sank.

I came up once and hollered!

I came up twice and cried!

If that water hadn't a-been so cold

I might've sunk and died.

But it was      Cold in that water!      It was cold!

I took the elevator Sixteen floors above the ground.

I thought about my baby

And thought I would jump down.

I stood there and I hollered!

I stood there and I cried!

If it hadn't a-been so high

I might've jumped and died.

But it was      High up there!      It was high!

So since I'm still here livin',

I guess I will live on.

I could've died for love--

But for livin' I was born

Though you may hear me holler,

And you may see me cry--

I'll be dogged, sweet baby,

If you gonna see me die.

Life is fine!      Fine as wine!      Life is fine!