Vegetables and Olives

January 10, 2022 in Tales from Italy

After a very long travel day consisting of five different trains, I arrived at the Conegliano station in the Veneto region of Northeastern Italy. I immediately spotted my host, Giorgia, with her bright red and long hair as she jumped out of her car to pick me up. Giorgia spoke excellent English and it was immediately clear that she was passionate about environmentalism and her work as a farmer. I learned in the first five minutes of our drive from the train station to her farm near the town of Colle Umberto, that she grows just about every vegetable that you can imagine. Except for asparagus.

This was my first experience as a WWOOFer, with the program, WWOOF, or “World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms”. I have a few friends from college who WWOOFed on farms abroad and have told me amazing stories from their experiences, so figured I’d try it. The deal is you work part-time on a farm in exchange for food and a place to sleep, while also exchanging knowledge and stories between WWOOF hosts and WWOOFers. I found two farms in Italy that agreed to let me WWOOF for them—this one (a vegetable farm) with Giorgia in Veneto for two weeks, and an olive farm in the town of Ventimiglia, Liguria, for another two weeks. I was beyond excited to learn more about food in Italy.

Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the little gated entrance at Giorgia’s farm, which she named “Easy Bisi di Giorgia Tonon,” so she can market her vegetables and organic methods behind the name on social media. I met Giulio, Giorgia’s husband, who was sweet, quirky, and still learning English. Giulio’s father, Giovanni, owns the property and helps Giorgia with all the routine chores and labor required for managing the farm. There is a two-story house on the property, where Giovanni, Giulio’s mother and sister live on the first floor; and Giulio and Giorgia on the second. I would be staying in a spare room on the second floor with Giulio and Giorgia.

Giorgia showed me my room and left me to relax for a few minutes. There was a big window with a view of the backyard, made up of rows of crops, and the view of the “Pre-Alps” beyond. It was beautiful, I’m living on a farm in Italy.

Over the next two weeks, I weeded, sowed spinach, watered plants in the greenhouse, fed the chickens, harvested eggplant, cabbages, radicchio, zucchini, pumpkins, sweet potatoes, a few different varieties of beans, cauliflower, baby tomatoes, and helped prepare Giorgia’s little “store” for customers to come and pick up their orders. I met a few of Giorgia and Giulio’s lovely friends, practiced my basic italian skills, and participated in a traditional Italian meal (you know, the one where there’s a primi, secondi, salad, side dishes, dessert, and espresso all in the span of an hour) that Giulio’s mother prepared for us on the day of the sweet potato harvest. Giorgia and Giulio took me to a market one Sunday, where I helped set up their table of vegetables and got to shop around, picking out cheese from local farmers, and pastries from local bakers. One of Giorgia’s friends sold his homemade wine, called clinto, at the market, and he wrote my name on a bottle with a colored sharpie and gave it to me as a gift.

In my free time, I went for runs through the prosecco vineyards surrounding the farm, helped Giorgia cook dinner, learned how to make a proper tiramisu (Giorgia’s mother’s recipe), read a few books, meditated, and thought about life. On one Saturday, I took a train to Venezia and spent a day exploring the city’s maze of narrow streets and canals. On Sunday, Giorgia, Giulio, and I drove two hours North into the Alps and went for a hike at Tre Cime, a famous set of three rugged peaks in the Dolomites. We laughed and taught each other slang in our native languages, and made fun of the U.S. for still using imperial units. It was approaching late-October, so one day I carved a proper American jack-o-lantern out of one of Giorgia’s pumpkins to display in her store.

Of all the things I did during my two weeks on the vegetable farm, I had some of the most fun sitting around the dinner table with Giorgia and Giulio, trying to learn Italian. There were a few nights when Giorgia had to leave after dinner to attend a meeting, so I was left with Giulio, who was learning English. His English was much better than my Italian, and we both knew enough of each other’s languages to get by. So we’d sit at the table for hours after we finished eating, teaching each other how to say certain phrases, googling the origins of words, and laughing at literal translations that don’t really “translate”. On those nights, doing the dishes became an ordeal, because we’d pause between every action and try to describe what we were doing in our new language. It was way too much fun. Giulio, Giorgia, and I also played Links a few times, which is a basic card game that was a perfect game for me to work on my Italian vocabulary and for Giulio to practice translating Italian into English, all while Giorgia mediated as the household-expert in both languages.

So, thanks Giorgia and Giulio for making my first WWOOF experience amazing. Not only will I never forget how to say “sick rocks” in Italian (I can’t write it here, the accurate translation involves too many Italian swear words), but I’m beyond grateful for having two amazing friends in Treviso.

Harvesting olives near Ventimiglia, Italy

I arrived in Ventimiglia, a small city only seven kilometers away from the French-Italian border, a few days before Halloween. My host’s girlfriend, Elisa, picked me up in her tiny car at the train station and drove me up the steep hill and ridiculously windy and steep road, littered with blind corners, to their farm, where I met Dario, who I’d be helping with the olive harvest for the next two weeks.

When I arrived at the farm, I immediately thought back to Cinque Terre, where I hiked up next to steep terraces overlooking the sea, and thought it was crazy that people actually farmed that land. When I remembered that Ventimiglia is in the region, Liguria, the same as Cinque Terre, I realized that that thought was now my reality—because for the next two weeks I would be one of those crazy people harvesting olives on terraces overlooking the sea.

As crazy as the land seemed, it was breathtaking. Dario inherited his farm from his parents, who inherited it from their parents, who used the bomb shelters scattered throughout the hills (and still visible today) to hide from the Americans and the Germans during World War II. So Ventimiglia had both a crazy history, and a crazy landscape—built on the narrow stretch of flat land between the steep cliffs and the sea. There was a big two-story house on the land, and the setup was similar to Giorgia and Giulio’s, with Dario’s mother downstairs and Dario and Elisa upstairs. The house was perched on one of several terraces, that each had a few plots of various vegetables. There were four olive tree fields (each made up of several terraces of trees) that were all between a 5-20 minute drive from the house, and had all been inherited by Dario.

My room in the house faced South, with a big set of doors opening up to the porch that overlooked Ventimiglia and the sea. To the West, I could see France. I watched many epic rainstorms and lightning shows move in from the French side of the border to the Italian side, all from the comfort of my bedroom.

A week into my stay at Dario’s, another WWOOFer showed up. His name was Albie, from Leipzig, Germany. Albie was a few years older than me, was a DJ, and was spending a few months in Italy as well, but was mostly working on farms in the South. For the next week, Albie and I had a lot of fun struggling through the olive harvest together, talking about our travels and about life.

The olive harvest was tough. Thanks to my many weeks spent measuring fish in the Grand Canyon, I had plenty of experience doing physical labor, and the olive harvest on the terraces of Liguria were no joke. After a hearty breakfast, Dario, Albie, and I would drive over to one of the olive tree fields, where we’d stay for eight hours, laying nets, “shaking” trees, collecting olives, and moving nets. This process took forever, but was oddly satisfying. Dario had about thirty, huge (probably 10 ft by 20 ft), green nets that we’d strategically spread out underneath the olive trees. This took some rigging, since some of the trees were hanging over a steep embankment and we were determined to collect as many olives as possible. Then, we’d go in with the shakers, which were baskets attached to a 6-foot pole that was connected to a car battery. The basket vibrated and spun when you switched it on, which we’d then use to literally “shake” the olives loose from their branches. And you’d have to wear glasses of some sort, as you were constantly getting pelted in the face by flying olives. After spending hours shaking a few trees, we’d use the nets to collect the olives into a pile, and then into a basket, and move the nets to the next set of trees further down the terrace. My neck was always sore at the end of the day, but time flew by, and it was pretty cool to see the dozens of baskets full of olives at the end of the day.

The work was much more demanding in Ventimiglia than on my last farm, but I still made time for adventures. On one rainy Saturday, I took the train to Monaco, which is a tiny country on the coast and surrounded by France. It was interesting, but there seemed to be more yachts than culture. So the next weekend, Albie and I spent a day in Nice, France, where I ate the best crepe of my entire life, and we poked around in a few high-end French shops, relaxed on the beach, and went to an art museum. On our way back from Nice, we picked up Chinese takeout in Ventimiglia, and laughed at how that day included: one American, one German, an Italian house, activities in France, and Chinese food made by Chinese-Italians. On Halloween, Dario told me about the “abandoned village” up the hill from the farm, so I went exploring up there. It was maybe a little too creepy of an activity to do by yourself in a foreign country on Halloween. Throughout my stay, I also went on a few runs in the trails nearby, that wound their way through the forests and olive groves.

On one of these runs, I noticed some damage in the trail that looked like a bunch of loose soil, and remembered Dario pointing out similar damage on one of his olive fields, which he said was made by wild boars. WILD BOARS! “Ha!” I thought to myself at the time. So I just kept running up the trail, past a couple houses, onto a paved road in a small neighborhood, looked up into one of the vineyards just off the road, and there, looking straight back at me, were two wild boars. Oh, shit. I was totally alone, and the boars saw me and I saw them. I was far enough away to be momentarily safe, but also close enough to be concerning. I grabbed my phone, pulled up my camera, and went to take their picture, but they were gone. Then a second later, they shot across the road I was running along, less than one-hundred feet in front of me, and bolted down into the same general direction that I was headed. I stood there for a second, dumbfounded, that in the span of one year I had managed to have a wolf encounter and a grizzly encounter in Alaska, and now a wild boar encounter in Italy. I waited for a few minutes and observed the valley that I was about to run down into, looking for any sign of movement. I saw none, and took comfort in carrying a rock with me, singing my whole way down the trail, and the fact that there were plenty of people around. So I continued on, keeping my eye out for the boars. I made it back to the farm without another sighting, but with a good story.

Dario and Elisa also let me into their community of friends during my stay. They took me to see one of their friend’s shows, which was a jazz concert at an osteria about a half-hour away. I joined for a dinner party one night at their friend Olga’s house, where I was the only person in the group of ten who did not speak fluent Italian, and spent most of the night trying to understand the conversation (which was apparently political, lots of people were shouting). Dario’s sister, Carla, and her partner, Paulo invited us all to her house for lunch one day, which was delicious, and Albie and I will forever be grateful for their kindness and hospitality. Near the end of my two weeks there, Dario, Elisa, Albie, and I, drove into the nearby town, Dolceacqua, which is famous for its medieval bridge that Claude Monet painted in one of his works. We explored the medieval city center, and saw a movie in a “four-dimensional cinema” before going over their friend’s apartment for dinner.

So, Dario, Elisa, and Albie—thank you for the unforgettable views, countless olives, and great conversations. I’ll never forget being pelted in the face by olives for hours on end, making authentic Ligurian pesto, and our nightly liquor selection. Indeed, you’ll always have a place to stay and a friend in the U.S.A.

The Big Waves of Cinque Terre

December 15, 2021 in Tales from Italy

I had a two hour layover in the small town of Pisa, on the day that I traveled from Lucca to Manarola. Lucca, is a town about two hours North of Firenze and it’s surrounded by a twenty-foot tall brick wall, making it a “walled city”. I had just come off my five-day high of being in Firenze, and I was hoping that I would enjoy a two-night visit to a small town in the Tuscan countryside. I enjoyed walking around its medieval-feeling city center, but I didn’t need to stay for two nights. Without a car, there wasn’t much for me to do there. So I was a little anxious to leave.

I was heading to Manarola, one of the five towns that make up Cinque Terre, a section of coastline on the Ligurian Sea that is famous for its vistas, seafood, and hiking, which would consume the next four days of my life. But, I was taking a pit stop in Pisa because if you haven’t heard, there’s a tower there that looks like it’s about to fall over.

When they say that the Tower of Pisa is “leaning”, they are not kidding. It is leaning at an impressive angle. I was a little on edge walking next to it. When I first recognized it as I was walking from the train station to the square that it stands (“leans”) in, I actually burst out laughing. Who designed this thing? How could they have screwed it up this badly? All funniness aside, the Tower and its surrounding square are actually pretty cool, and the Tower has been leaning like that for centuries.

I walked around the square, admired the Leaning Tower, the church, and the baptistery. I sprawled out on the lawn next to the baptistery to read and enjoy watching the tourists try to line-up that cheesy, iconic photo where you put your hands up so it looks like you’re holding up the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I tried so hard to contain my eye-rolls and chuckles as one tourist after another attempted to take this iconic photo. Sometimes, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. I walked through the city center a bit and found an aperitivi, made up of a bruschetta and aperol spritz. Eventually it started to rain, which was perfect timing since I had to jump on my next train to Manarola anyways.

Before arriving in Manarola, I was warned that there was some bad weather coming in and they would be at a “level orange” for about 24 hours after my train dropped me off at the station. That was all the information I got… What the heck does “level orange” mean? Google told me that it meant there was a gnarly storm coming in and there was the potential for flooding. And since all of the restaurants and shops in Cinque Terre reside in old buildings at sea level, and since most of them do not have more than one exit, “level orange” meant that everything would be closed except for three restaurants in Manarola (the three restaurants that have more than one exit). I quickly made a dinner reservation for that night at one of them, worried that I’d be spending an evening without food.

When I walked through the long tunnel from the train station into the actual town of Manarola, it wasn’t raining, just a little windy with an overcast. There was nobody there, except for my Airbnb host, waiting to greet me. He walked me through the little maze of the town to my room, which was a one-bedroom built into a stone wall overlooking the sea, and facing the main tower of buildings that made up the majority of the town. The room came with access to a little covered balcony up a flight of stairs. From my room and the balcony were unobstructed views of the sea. The waves beating up against the stone barrier protecting Manarola’s little cove were MASSIVE. A storm was coming and it was going to get crazy. My host, a very kind Italian man who spoke little English, reminded me that nearly everything was going to be closed until the next day and then said that I came to Cinque Terre at the worst time.

I walked around Manarola a little and explored it’s various paved and unpaved paths that led to different views of the sea. The lighting was beautiful, with an amazing contrast from the overcasting clouds while the sea, cliffs, and vegetation all popped with color. The waves, the surf, the sea, were rocking— and crashing over the rocks, splashing up thirty feet high. It was quite the show. Before arriving, I had seen photos of the same main street, the same main drag, so packed with tourists that you could hardly move. And now, there was nobody in town. It was a ghost town, like a ski resort in the middle of winter. Everyone had gone home, or everyone had taken cover from the storm. My room was steps away from the restaurant I would eat at later that night, enclosed in their covered outdoor patio, listening to the sound of rain as I ate an entire plate of spaghetti alla vongole. There were only a few other tourists at the restaurant. I loved chatting with my Airbnb host and I appreciated his help, but he was absolutely wrong… I came to Manarola at the best time.

It rained all night, but the next morning was perfect. It was still cloudy and a little windy, but the rain had stopped. I found a brioche and cappuccino and watched the waves, still as massive as before, from the little balcony above my room overlooking the sea. I could sit there and watch the sea for hours and never get bored, it was the perfect perch, the perfect place to be calm throughout the storm.

A few hours later, I decided it was time for some exercise. So I navigated myself to the trail from Manarola to Riomaggiore, the next town to the South. The trail was straight up a steep hill, and then straight down into town. The straight-line distance between the two towns couldn’t be more than a mile and the trail was steep, a true stair-city. There was hardly anyone on it, so I cruised up and down and was in Riomaggiore in about an hour. It felt amazing to have my legs burning and my heart pounding.

I explored Riomaggiore a bit and admired it’s beautiful cove and brightly-colored buildings, while listening to the waves crash up against the cliffs below. So magnificent. I was glad I was staying in Manarola though—it was quieter and felt a bit cozier.

The next day was one of my best yet on this amazing three-month journey. I woke up early, around 7:30 (that’s a alpine start when you’re on vacation in Italy), grabbed a cappuccino and a brioche, and headed for the trail to Corniglia, which was just a few steep switchbacks up the paved path right outside my room.

And on that trail, I found pure paradise. In fact, I think I saw God. The trail wound its way up through olive trees to a small town called Volastra, where it then remained flat and high up above the sea and passed through vineyards. Green and purple olives, and grapes were everywhere. The vines were slowly turning a light green as fall was coming, the sea was the most beautiful shade of teal you could possible imagine. It was the color you see in travel magazines and think to yourself that a sea could never look like that in real life. The light poking between the dark clouds was golden and heavenly. There was no one else on the trail, which was a fantastic contrast to the chaos that I experienced on the Path of the Gods along the Amalfi Coast. The views of Manarola and Corniglia, both made up of brightly colored buildings stacked on top of cliffs overlooking the sea, stood proudly illuminated under rays of golden sunlight. This is heaven. This is one of the most beautiful places on Earth.

It truly felt as if the Universe was trying to tell me something.

I would have never come to Cinque Terre if it weren’t for my friend, Cyn. Cyn, short for Cynthia, is a friend of my dad’s and has become a good friend of mine in the last two years. She lives in Evergreen, my hometown, and has two teenage boys. Cyn is a counselor and a therapist and also loves to cook. She has spent a good amount of time in Italy and in France, learning how to cook beautiful food. She is one of the people who have inspired my recent realization of my love for food and cooking, and part of my inspiration to come to Italy. If Cyn hadn’t told me about Cinque Terre in a random text message a few months ago when I asked her for recommendations on where I should go, I would never have visited. So thank you, Miss Cyn, for putting this place on my map.

I explored Corniglia for a little while before taking the train back to Manarola, where I found a delicious focaccia for a snack, took a shower, relaxed on the balcony, and later ate a pizza topped with prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella for dinner. What a day.

Over the course of the four days that I spent in Manarola, the weather slowly cleared and the town slowly filled up with tourists. One day I took a train to Vernazza and hiked all the way back to my room at the bottom of the switchbacks in Manarola. I got plenty of good exercise in, which (hopefully) made up for my daily carbo-loading of pasta, bread, and brioche.

I also spent a lot of time on that balcony. I read, journaled, mediated, and thought about life up there, all while enjoying the sights and sounds of the turquoise sea and the crashing waves from the storm. On the balcony, there were no problems in the world. I just watched my concerns, fears, emotions, hopes, and dreams all crash through me like the waves of the sea. I was standing at the shore, completely unfazed. I was at peace.

In the months since my stay in Cinque Terre, I have thought back to that day hiking between Manarola and Corniglia, wondering what it was exactly that the Universe was trying to tell me. To be honest, I really have no idea. But I did write the following in my journal one day up on that balcony, which I think sums up my thoughts, feelings, and attitudes during my five days in beautiful Cinque Terre:

Can I just sit here and watch
These waves crash on the rocks
and let my thoughts crash
Through me forever?
Waves of blue, and turquoise,
and navy, and
Thoughts of love and freedom
and longing and loneliness
and independence?
They’re so incredible, all
Of these waves and thoughts.
The sea is violent and chaotic
But I am so at peace.
I finally found peace.
I’m free from my thoughts,
From the world and the madness.
My soul is liberated.
My river has reached a sea.
The sun pokes through the
Clouds on the horizon and
I know that everything will be alright.
Truly, I believe it now.
No matter where I go or
Who I love or
What I do
It will be alright.
A river always finds a sea.

FIRENZE

October 28, 2021 in Tales from Italy

I really enjoyed my first night sleeping on a soft mattress. I slept so damn well. The first two rooms I had stayed in, one in Rome and one in Salerno, both had firm mattresses. At first they were fine, but after six hours or so, my shoulders started to ache. Maybe Europeans just prefer a firm mattress, or maybe the entire world does and Americans are truly the weird ones with their soft, pillow-top like mattresses that swallow you up.

Either way, I slept very well during my five-day stay in Florence, or Firenze, which might have contributed to it being my favorite city in Italy so far (and still is one month later as I write this).

When I first arrived in Firenze (can we take a second to appreciate how lovely that word is, “Fear-en-say”), I walked five minutes from the apartment that my room was in and saw the massive Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore, or the duomo for short. It took my breath away with its unique marble walls of green, pink, and white, and with its red-bronze dome. The entire exterior of the Duomo was covered in art, which reminded me of the Vatican Museums and the Sistine Chapel. I could, and I did, stare at the Duomo from some cafe in the square surrounding the Duomo for hours, sipping on a cappuccino and munching on a brioche. I never went inside the Duomo, as every time I walked through the busy square, the line to go inside snaked it’s way around the exterior of the building, and the people always looked so miserable, standing, waiting for probably an hour or so in the hot sun. No thanks, I’m content just seeing it from the outside.

I explored all over Firenze’s pedestrian-friendly city center. I loved that the city felt so big and spacious, but that it only took ten minutes to walk from my room on the North side of the city center, to the Arno River on the South side. I loved the wide piazzas and Renaissance artwork. And the food…. oh my god, the food. From endless glasses of wine, to a simple panino stuffed with salami and soft cheese, that would be so boring in any other city on Earth but was somehow extraordinary here; to truffles, tagliere or a meat and cheese platter, to the gelato in it’s purest form (apparently gelato originates in Firenze)… the food was spectacular.

I spent an afternoon in the Uffizi Gallery and loved soaking up every room filled with Renaissance art. I listened to Rick Steves’ free audio guide on his app that you can download. This has been a good pro-tip I got from Reddit, so you don’t need to pay the 10 euros for an audio guide at the museum. Rick walked me through Uffizi and pointed out all the interesting differences between the countless Madonna and Child frescoes, marble busts, and tall statues of perfectly-sculpted Greek gods and goddesses. But the pieces that stood out the most to me were The Birth of Venus by Sandro Botticelli and Annuciazione by Leonardo da Vinci. Neither of these works were obviously religious like the other art in Uffizi (at least not obviously religious to a non-religious person) and they both had bright colors and depicted scenes that were revolutionary for their time. In The Birth of Venus stands a naked woman, posed in a somewhat-promiscuous manner, and I think it radiates a powerful feminine energy that must have stunned viewers in the 15th century. Annuciazione stood out because of it’s extreme horizontal composition, with lines pulling you to the trees and mountains in the landscape behind the figures in the center of the piece. And the colors are so dark and vibrant, so ominous and mysterious.

Of course I had to pay a visit to the Galleria Accademia to see Michelangelo’s David one day. It was definitely impressive, David is massive, 17-feet tall, and incredibly handsome, for a statue. I also spent a morning in the Bargello museum to see more sculpture work and more Michelangelo masterpieces. As highly regarded as Italian sculpture is, I think it’s still an underrated art form. All of these pieces, including David, started out as a regular block of marble, where they were transported (can you imagine transporting a 17-foot tall block of heavy marble into a busy city center just so some dude could carve a body out of it?), and chiseled into perfect pieces of art. Michelangelo always said that he wasn’t a sculptor, but was working for God to expose beautiful human bodies and faces in the stone. I honestly don’t think that’s too crazy of a statement.

In Firenze, I quickly became aware of a type of Italian food establishment called an enoteca, or a wine bar. We definitely have them in the US, but I’ve never been to one and it’s hard to imagine that they can compare to the enotecas that I’ve been enjoying in Italy.

One night for dinner, I walked about twenty-minutes or so from my room, and headed South through the city center, across the Ponte Vecchio, or a medieval bridge lined with gold jewelry shops, to a little enoteca, tucked away in some discreet corner, called Le Volpi e l’Uva. I sat down at the bar and told the barman that I’d like a glass of Tuscan wine that is a good place to start for a beginner wine connoisseur, someone on the beginning of their lifelong wine journey. After all, I was in Tuscany, a region known for their wines, in a country known for their wines, and I’m the daughter of a guy who is a bit of a wine nut.

In the last year or so, I’ve gone through many glasses of wine, scanned many bottles on Vivino, successfully attempted, and sometimes failed, to pair my wine with a meal that I just slaved over, and I’ve started learning about the types of wine that I prefer (a daunting task). But if you were to ask me now, what my favorite type of wine is, I’d probably answer the same way that my dad does (which is really quite annoying) and say, “good wine is my favorite type of wine.” But it’s true! I LOVE syrah. I love a nice crisp Chardonnay, but I also love a sweeter Sauvignon Blanc. I’ve learned in Italy that I love big beautiful reds like a Rosso di Montalcino or a classic Cabernet Sauvignon. One time I had a glass of Spanish Rioja at the Spanish-Italian restaurant that my Dad and I love in Basalt, Colorado, and it blew my freaking mind. And sometimes, a glass of really, really good rosé just hits the spot. To sum it up, there’s way too much good wine in the world for me to pick a favorite. And I’m currently living in wine paradise and it’s pretty awesome.

So the barman at Le Volpi e l’Uva brought me a glass of rosso di montalcino and a wooden tagliere with a sausage and cheese crostone to pair. It was lovely. We started chatting as I salivated over this epic trio of meat, wine, and cheese. Ciro, was his name, and Ciro had been working at this enoteca in Firenze for 25 years. About three years ago, he started making his own wine. Wine is his life. He brought me a glass of his own next, a trebbiano, which is a unique white wine aged with the grape skins in the barrel (white wines are usually aged without the skin). It was orange and heavy for a white. But it smelled like oranges, tasted like oranges, but wasn’t overpowering. It was amazing, and became even more amazing when he brought out another crostone for me, this one topped with artichoke, capers, cheese, and lemon zest. Hands down, fantastic.

By the way, I just gazed over the menu and the list of wines by the glass on the blackboard inside. I had no idea what to order. I told Ciro, “mi fido di te” or “I trust you” and he made the difficult decisions for me. I’ve done this a few times ordering food in Italy, and it hasn’t let me down yet.

Crostone with cheese, artichoke, capers, and lemon zest. AKA heaven on Earth.

The day that sticks out the most to me from my time in Firenze, was the day that I bought the dress. I spent a whole morning looking at David and other sculptures in the Galleria Accademia, stopping by the Cordon Bleu Culinary School just to check it out, and sipping on an amaretto cappuchino and eating a chocolate-cream filled brioche in a cafe. I had no plans for my afternoon.

Lately, I’d noticed at just how fashionable Europeans, and specifically Italians, are. Americans can certainly be fashionable, but I spent the last five years of my life in Boulder, Colorado, where “sockos”, jeans, and Melanzana hoodies are perfectly acceptable attire. I am not fashionable by the European standards.

The street I was walking down, the Via dei Calzaiuoli, is one of the oldest streets in Firenze, where merchants used to hustle and bustle up and down the street between the Duomo and the Piazza della Signorina. Now, it is lined with high-end and elegant shops, and is one of the main touristy streets in town. I randomly decided to go into one of those high end, elegant shops, just to poke around for a bit. I had no intention of buy anything, I was simply looking.

Immediately, a bright, orange, floral dress caught my eye and I was peeking at it when a very pretty Italian saleswoman walked up to me wearing the same dress. Ugh, she looked so good, and with some convincing, she grabbed one that was my size and had me try it on.

Before I knew it, she and the other saleswomen (who were all equally fabulous), had me in the dress and were accessorizing me with belts, sweaters, and coats, showing me how versatile this dress could be. I was soon in a pair of Mary Jane heels, walking around, admiring myself. Heels? Orange? Flowers? Me??? Now, pre-Italy-trip Katherine would have never, ever, ever, even thought about wearing something like that. All I knew was that I had reddish-blonde hair that orange simply doesn’t work with. And I don’t do flowers. But as I stood there looking in the mirror, I had to admit to myself that I looked stunning. Who the hell is that girl looking like she’s about to go out and conquer the world? I imagined myself talking to clients at my future law firm in this dress, being a badass business woman in this dress, and going on countless dates in this dress. I remembered the conversation I had with my Dad over breakfast before he drove me to the airport a few weeks ago, where he told me not to worry about the money on this trip. He said, obviously not to get crazy, but to experience Italy as much as I could. And that meant splurging on tours of the Vatican, meals with views overlooking Positano, and that meant to buy myself a nice dress if I found one.

So, I did. I spent more money on that one dress than I have probably spent on 99% of the articles of clothing I have ever owned. I felt no shame. The saleswomen told me that all women deserve to feel beautiful like that every damn day. I think she’s right. And I walked out of that store and down the Via dei Calzaiuoli feeling like a million bucks, and feeling that incredible sense of freedom that was becoming more familiar to me as the weeks went by in Italy. It was the same feeling I felt running to catch my plane in Denver International Airport, the same thing I felt watching my last sunset in Rome at the top of the Spanish Steps. I felt it in the restaurant, eating clams and drinking prosecco and overlooking Positano, and I felt it floating in the Mediterranean, looking up at those beautiful limestone cliffs.

And now here I was, walking through Firenze, the city where the Renaissance all began, with an absurdly expensive dress in my hands, and feeling absolutely liberated. Now I just needed to find some shoes that I could wear with it.

Trains, Trails, Views, and Seafood

October 21, 2021 in Tales from Italy

It turns out the train system in Italy is really quite easy to figure out. We don’t use public transportation much in Colorado, as it’s not nearly as thorough as it is in Europe. So I entered Italy with this somewhat-rational fear that I would really struggle with the trains while trying to get from city to city. But who knew that walking into a train station with your ticket downloaded onto your phone, and looking up onto a big screen that says partenze, or departures, finding your train number and then reading it’s binario, or platform, and following the signs to your appropriate train, could be so easy.

I took two trains to get from Rome to Salerno. The first one stopped in Naples and I bought the ticket so that I’d have an hour to explore Naples if I wanted to. But once I arrived in the Napoli Centrale station and walked outside, I wasn’t feeling it. So I hung out in the station and found some food before hopping on my train to take me to Salerno.

But on my train from Rome to Naples, I was ecstatic. There I was, sitting on a train going through the Italian countryside, past vineyards and old farm plots, all by myself. Ten year-old me would be so proud of twenty-three year-old me. I was absorbed in the little cloud of freedom that I had found, with my feet up on the seat in front of me. There was no one else on the train car that I was sitting in, so I was relaxed, spread out, and enjoying the ride.

Then one of the Trenitalia employees, this one an older Italian man, walked by me to check my ticket. He took one look at me with my feet up on the seat and waved his finger at me with a stern “no”, like I was an absolute trash person who puts their feet on chairs. Clearly I disgusted him. “Sorry!! Spiacente!” I tried to smile at him under my mask. He looked at my ticket, glared at me, and continued by. I still haven’t figured out if it’s bad form to put your feet up in Italy, but I’ve been on dozens of trains in the last month since I arrived in Rome, and I haven’t put my feet up once since.

My first night in Salerno was fantastic. My Airbnb was a private bedroom of an apartment belonging to an elderly Italian couple who had lived in Salerno their whole lives—Anna Maria and Tony. The didn’t speak much English, but they were wonderfully kind. I needed to do some laundry, and Tony insisted that he put my dirty clothes in their washing machine and hang it up to dry on their clothesline for me. It was part of the service, I guess, but I managed to pick my clean underwear and reusable masks out of the pile before he hung them up on the line. I didn’t want my limited underwear supply and essential masks getting blown away by the wind, and this old Italian man shouldn’t feel like he has to touch my undies. It was awfully funny.

I left the apartment and began walking around downtown Salerno to explore a bit and find a good spot for dinner. The main road next to the beach was lined with touristy restaurants and sushi bars. I wasn’t interested in that… I walked up a few blocks to the hilly part of town and found a tiny restaurant with a few tables outside in an alley called Casa Cavour.

My waiter’s name was Diego and I (later) found out that he owned the restaurant. I told him that I was learning Italian, sto imperando l’italiano, and he was very gracious and picked out a dish for me on the menu, promising me I would love it. A little while later, he brought out one of the prettiest plates of pasta I’d ever seen. A large, oval shaped, shallow bowl with square-shaped penne-like pasta. There were two whole shrimp, squid, mussels, and arugula scattered between the pasta and seafood. Bellisimo cibo! Diego wished me, bon appetito, and left me to enjoy my pasta and seafood-induced bliss. The pasta was perfectly cooked, a little al dente, the seafood was so full of flavor but not fishy tasting at all, and the arugula was a perfect touch of freshness. I washed it down with a fruity, smooth, and delicious glass of red wine.

When Diego came back to take my plate, I told him that this was the best pasta I’d had in Italy so far, il miglior pasta in Italia finora. He was so flattered, so humbled, by my extreme compliment. I have come to understand that in Italy they take these things seriously! What I told him was true, and he brought be a glass of limoncello, the sweet and tart lemon liquor of the Italian riviera, on the house.

I love that Italians take so much pride in their meals and appreciate people appreciating their creations. I will gladly appreciate amazing Italian food and proudly tell them that it’s amazing, any day. What a simple and wonderful existence—a love for food and fresh ingredients, and for both new and familiar flavors. I love this country.

View of the Amalfi Coast from Sentiero Deghli Dei.

One day in Salerno, I woke up early to catch a ferry into the town of Amalfi, one of many small towns along the Amalfi Coast that I was looking to explore. I’m really starting to Planes, Trains, and Automobiles this trip.

The ferry rounded a corner of cliffs, and the other tourists and I gazed west up along the Amalfi Coast, cliffed up against the light blue Mediterranean Sea. There were huge limestone faces hanging over the sea, and the occasional house built in an impossible-looking spot, with no clear path to civilization. Eventually, the town of Amalfi came into view, with its old buildings looking like they might fall into the sea at any moment. It was a beautiful and charming little town.

Amalfi, the town, revolves around lemons—limoncello, lemon risotto, lemon granita, and if you walk even five minutes out of the tourist chaos in the town’s center and up the main road into the mountains, you’ll see the lemon groves woven into the neighborhoods, wrapping around each and every face of Amalfi’s little canyon, and the hills beyond.

I hopped on a bus that would take me from Amalfi to the even smaller town of Praiano, about a 30-minute drive up the road from Amalfi. The road that connects all of these little towns—Salerno, Maiori, Minori, Amalfi, Praiano, Positano, and Sorrento—is absolutely crazy. I’m a mountain girl, I’m used to roads with heights, cliffs, loose rocks, you name it. But this road was just barely wide enough for two cars to pass. More than half of the road has a cliff with a several-hundred foot sheer drop into the ocean on one side, and my bus driver drove with a frightening confidence. Whenever we’d approach a blind hairpin turn, he’d lay down on the horn to alert oncoming traffic that a huge bus with a hundred wide-eyed tourists were coming, and then zip around the turn, hardly braking at all. There were several times when some confident tourists in an oncoming car would try to pass the bus in a narrow section of road. With only a three-foot high stone wall between their car and a sheer drop into the sea, it was wild watching their faces sink with panic when the bus would squeeze between the car and the edge of the road, inches from the guarding wall and only inches from the bus. Needless to say, I was really happy to get off that bus.

I didn’t spend much time in Praiano. After being on that windy road in that hot bus, I was ready to get moving. My plan was to hike along the Sentiero Deghli Dei, or the Path of the Gods, a trail that was used to travel between these towns for centuries before the road was built. I began climbing up a long set of staircases to reach the Sentiero, which I would follow until it reached the next town, Positano. I quickly caught up with an Israeli couple who were moving slowly up the endless stairs. They were friendly and interesting, so I slowed my Colorado legs down for a bit so I could hike with them. We talked about all the places we’ve visited across the world and the adventures that we’d hope would come. Eventually, we reached the “summit” which was a water fountain with a breathtaking panoramic overlook of the sea, with Praiano to our left, and Positano to our right. The overlook was busy with tourists and I was ready to continue on, so I said goodbye to my Israeli friends and headed to Positano.

The view of Positano was stunning, one of the best ocean landscapes on Planet Earth. Huge limestone cliffs with sparkling turquoise water, and the literal cliff dwellings of Positano crowded up against the sea, all competing for that magnificent ocean view. But as I continued on towards Positano, the trail became busier and busier. At first, I didn’t mind so much. But eventually, trying to pass literally every other human being on the trail became pretty annoying. It actually put a bit of a damper on my mood. I was reminded that I just move faster than most people (which is crazy because I’m not even close to being the fastest hiker in my group of friends back home), and patience was going to be the key to my success on this trip.

By the time I descended thousands of stairs and actually reached Positano, I was pretty done and food was my top priority. I found a restaurant on a narrow street, overlooking town and the sea below. Normally, I would not ever choose to go to a restaurant like this, because I know I would be paying for that view along with the food. But I was hungry and exhausted and this was the first restaurant I set my eyes on, so it was a go. And to my surprise, my waiter sat me at the best table in the house, up against the railing overlooking the amazing view. I ordered a glass of prosecco and a bowl of linguine alla vongole, or linguine with clams. It was worth a splurge.

I settled into some newly-discovered state of relaxation on that balcony, sipping on my prosecco and clams bathed in garlicy-olive-oily-goodness. What is this life? How am I so lucky to be able to do this? I was truly living. I told my waiter, “siamo molto fortunati!!” or “we are so lucky!”.

With a full belly, I ran down to the beach. I was headed for those alluring blue Mediterranean waters. I stripped down into my swimsuit, locked my bag to a railing, was assured by a nice Italian woman that she would watch it for me, and dove into the waves. I floated on my back and stared up at the cliffs and stacked buildings and laughed. I was so free. I thought to myself, I love this life that I have—the freedom to see the world and to do whatever I want. It was like my heart opened up to the world and let out the most beautiful sigh of bliss and joy. I was at peace.

Linguine alla vongole and a glass of prosecco looking over Positano.

ROMA. Something Different

October 19, 2021 in Tales from Italy

I spent the second half of August in an Anchorage Airbnb with two good friends, Zach and Katie, who I decided to hang out with for a few weeks after our ten-day trip to the Gates of the Arctic. It had been raining for about five days straight, so we were confined to our warm and dry little townhome, where I took it upon myself to plan a trip to Italy. I had been toying with the idea for a few weeks, as Europe was one of the few places I could safely travel to during the pandemic and I wanted to continue cultivating my newfound love for delicious food. Zach and Katie did a three-month trip to Europe a few years ago and they were telling me stories, giving me tips, and filling me with ideas. A few days before I left Anchorage to head home to Colorado, I was feeling a little spontaneous, so in that moment I booked a flight to Rome.

And before I knew it, only two weeks had gone by. It was September 16th, and I was giving my Dad an extra-long hug on the Denver International Airport drop-off curb before spending an hour in the check-in line because I forgot to fill out some COVID form, and then I was asking strangers if I could cut in front of them to bypass the longest security line I’d ever seen, only to sprint through the airport and walk right onto my plane. I was full of adrenaline when I was finally seated and looked out the airplane window. I was actually doing it, I’m actually going to Italy for three months.

Twelve hours later, I was in Rome and was struggling to navigate myself from the airport to the Roma Termini train station. I met a family who was traveling from New Jersey and was headed in the same direction as me, so we helped each other get on the correct train. Once at Termini, I was alone again, but easily found my Airbnb nearby, dropped my backpack in my room, took a few minutes to compose my jetlagged-self, and headed out to explore the city.

I found the Trevi Fountain and admired it’s beautiful turquoise waters. I stopped for a cappuccino and a panino at a cafe nearby, and then for a gelato later. Yes, the gelato is as amazing as everyone says it is. I was so excited to be in this new world, to soak up the culture, and to try to speak as much Italian as possible. But after finishing my first gelato, I was exhausted. So I headed back to my room for a long nap before having a delicious bowl of spaghetti for dinner.

By the end of my second day in Rome, I could tell that this was one of the best decisions I have ever made in my life. I met a girl from Patagonia, Chile, named Risa (pronounced Rye-sa) while I was relaxing for a few minutes in a park after a morning of walking through the city. Risa and I explored a few churches, the Pantheon, and found delicious panini e vino. Eventually we parted ways, only to return to my Airbnb to meet two German girls who were staying in the room next to me. Piacere Anja and Diandra!

That night I went out with Anja and Diandra to a district of Rome called Trastevere, which I learned is the “cool and hip” part of town. Diandra studied abroad in Rome during one of her semesters in university, so she was fluent in Italian and knew all about Rome. Trastevere was full of young people, probably college kids, and full to the brim with delicious restaurants.

We wandered around for a while before deciding on a trattoria where we watched them bring out delicious-looking pizza. I sat down and there was no English on the menu, which I learned was a good sign for authentic food. Diandra ordered a bruschetta, three suppli, a plate of fresh sautéed eggplant and peppers, and a perfect pizza complete with basil springs and baby tomatoes. Oh my god, I am in the right country.

The Vatican Museums were my favorite part of my stay in Rome. At home before my trip, I decided to book a guided tour for the Vatican, because I knew there would be an overwhelming amount of information to absorb. And I was totally right… every inch of the building that is known today as the Vatican Museum is covered in artwork. From sculpture, to frescos, to tapestries, to the ceilings, to the the actual building itself, art is on every visible surface. Each piece of art has an entire history to it, and every piece of art and it’s history is only a piece of the entire puzzle of Roman Catholic history.

I loved listening to my tour guide tell stories of rivalry between Michelangelo and Raphael. Gazing up at the ceilings was incredible. Walking down the Room of Maps and admiring the attention to detail of each panel representing a small section of Italy was fascinating. But nothing compared to when I finally walked into the Sistine Chapel at the end of the tour and gazed up to the ceiling that Michelangelo so famously painted for Pope Sixtus from 1477-1480. Filled with biblical scenes and The Creation of Adam, the ceiling took my breath away. I could spend a lifetime gazing up at that ceiling and picking out new details that I had never noticed before. Michelangelo was really onto something.

As much as I liked the Vatican Museums, I wasn’t a huge fan of St. Peter’s Basilica, the massive church and the center of Catholicism which was next-door to the Museums. It was too much for me. A cathedral that big, and full of every expensive material found on the planet (mostly gold and stunning marble), cost an unfathomable amount of money to build. It was a supposed symbol of power and strength in the world, built on funds from the richest Catholics in Italy who were “donating money” to be “forgiven for their sins.” And yet we still have starving and suffering people in the world….? To be honest, I’ve never known much about or had much interest in organized religion in my life. I’m sure organized religion has a place in this world, maybe I’m just doubtful about what that is.

I digress.

On my way home from the Vatican, I tried to speak a lot of Italian. When asking random strangers for help on how to buy a ticket at a subway station, “Mi puoi aiutare?”, and then immediately after, “Parli inglese?” I was surprised at how many people spoke enough English to help a lone tourist like me. I ducked into some grocery store to try to find some laundry detergent and relied on Google Translate to ask the friendly security guard if some box of detergent was the right box of detergent. Italian really is a beautiful language and my first few days in Italy, spent wandering around the streets of Rome, marked the beginning of my determination to learn it.

After stopping for gelato on my way home (where I asked the gelato-man what his favorite flavor was in Italian, and ended up nearly crying from pure joy over the delicious fig-flavored gelato I had just devoured), I found that Diandra and Anja had left and gone home. But they messaged me, saying that they forgot about a bottle of lambrusco they left in the shared fridge, and it was now mine.

I promptly poured myself a glass of lambrusco, which is similar to prosecco but not quite as sweet. It was delicious and I was riding high from the fascinating day I had. I ended up drinking the entire bottle in one go in my little bedroom, and then quickly fell asleep.

I spent my last evening in Rome walking towards the Spanish Steps, the one major landmark I hadn’t yet found in the city. I was a little tired of the constant chaos and hustle and bustle of the city, and I was ready for my next adventure on the Amalfi Coast, which I was hoping would be more relaxed. But I walked the streets of Rome with a good sense of direction and I felt more confident than ever as a solo-traveler in a foreign city.

On the way, I found a nice restaurant with a space for outdoor seating among a busy street of traffic, where I enjoyed a beautiful bowl of spaghetti carbonara. The carbonara in Rome is like an egg sauce, different from any kind of carbonara I’ve had in the US. It was garnished with little bits of crispy bacon and pecorino cheese.

The Spanish Steps were crowded with tourists. Without hesitation, I climbed to the top of the steps, where the Trínità dei Monti was standing and walked inside. It was instantly quiet, a much-needed relief from the crazy going on just outside the church’s doors. There was a preacher giving a sermon in French to a few loyal listeners and I sat down in the back and listened to those beautiful French syllables reverberate around the massive marble walls and painted ceilings.

I thought back to my life that I knew only five days ago. It was full of a constant thinking about what to do next and a worry over how I am going to find success in the world. In the year since I graduated from college, I had found a place to live in Boulder with three of my closest friends. I kept the great part-time job that was in the Environmental field (the same field that I studied in college), I worked part-time at Whole Foods, and I spent most of the year studying for the LSAT. In my free time, I hiked, backpacked, skied, climbed, and even tried mountain biking. I nurtured many wonderful friendships and enjoyed a wonderful relationship, though that was over now. Objectively, I did pretty well for myself that first year.

But at the same time, I was always looking forward and thinking about what would be the next chapter of my life. What I was doing never felt like it was good enough at the time. I didn’t even come close to the LSAT score that I wanted. I applied for a few jobs, interviewed for one, but nothing came about. Always, always thinking… How am I going to get into law school? How am I going to get a job if I haven’t already? What the heck am I going to do with my life? I spent so much time worrying about the future that I didn’t even notice my happiness during that last year in Boulder.

In the Trínità dei Monti in Rome, the sound of the preacher preaching and a few worshippers singing, it felt like it was time to let go of something. I felt an emotion swelling up inside of me, and I began to cry. I let go of the worries of my future, I let go of my few failures in the last year, I let go of the relationship I was leaving behind, and felt the urge to make a promise to myself—I will be more present while in Italy. So no more worrying about anything, I’m in Italy, busy eating beautiful food and doing whatever it is that I want to do. And I will do my best to not think about what I’m going to do after this trip. Let the past go, you’re here now, your future will always be there, you will find the right path. Just have some fun.

I gathered myself and walked out of the Church and back onto the busy street at the top of the Spanish Steps. Feeling a little liberated and a little relieved, I sat down at the top of the Steps to watch the sun set over the magnificent dome of St. Peter’s Basilica and I enjoyed listening to the bustle of the city on my last night in Rome. I had a new outlook on my three-month trip in Italia, and I couldn’t wait to find more freedom, beauty, and incredible food, wherever that may be.

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