Mostly Like Home

There is little exotic in my ancestry. My maternal grandmother was adopted so there may be some trace of Italian or French or Spanish descent, but we are mostly from the United Kingdom - a bit of Irish, some Scottish and mostly English. I have dark hair and eyes paired with very fair skin prone to burns and blushes. I've heard stories of green fields and farms and ships to America.

I know not whether there is some primitive pull toward the lands of those before me or whether I simply like the UK for random reasons. I suppose it doesn't particularly matter, for I feel very comfortable here - speaking the language, having washcloths, not having bidets (of whose use I remain ignorant), having pens rather than pencils in hotel rooms. Alarm clocks so that I can take the battery out of my travel clock that speaks annoyingly (in French) whenever my belongings shift and depress a button on the blasted device.

There's television and soda and food that is more filling than delicious. And it's lovely.

I have taken up residence on the 3rd floor of a house on Cathedral (Street? Boulevard? Way?) and am finding it utterly charming.

Speaking the language does help. I know this is obvious and freely admit that I did accomplish goals in both France and Italy, but the rapid exchange of information today could not have happened if we didn't share a language. In addition, we skipped over background and went straight to results and future plans - it was efficient and stimulating and delightful.

I rarely spend 6 straight hours learning and thinking and letting my brain organize information into pieces I can use, things I should remember and items to discard. And in moments like that, I remember why I adore my job. Meeting brilliant people and taking in ideas and deciding what makes sense to use.

Having been abandoned by my host, I finished up the meetings and walked back to my hotel through the chilly afternoon. I stopped off at the castle on the way. There may be people who could have walked by without going in and grabbing an audio guide and climbing the steps to the keep. I am not one of those people.

But even as I climbed the steps and took the pictures and sighed over the moat (I've now crossed a moat!), I rested more often as a slightly twisted ankle at the palace in Versailles ends up with an achy leg and spasm-y muscle in a castle in Wales.

I grow weary. I'm blessed and thrilled and lucky and have had such a wonderful trip. I never mean to dismiss the 'right place right time' goodness of having this job and seeing parts of the world I otherwise wouldn't.

But I miss my dog. I'd like to cook rather than eat out. Arrange my piles of pillows as I like. Cuddle the girls and talk to my mom and dad rather than sending quick email with photos attached.

But for now, I'm packed and ready for an English breakfast and train ride in the morning.

And I'm taking a tiny plush dragon home with me, having pinned a daffodil to his glittery chest to make him a bit more friendly. So it's a good day here in the Welsh capital.

A bit more tomorrow from London.

Sans Sheriff

This is how the world appeared to me this morning as I moved through the city before dawn, coat flapping about me like a cape.

Unlike some graceful heroine, however, I was burdened by backpack and bag. I'd slept for about 4 hours. And my nose was running because of the cold wind.

I moved across the street, looking both directions because it's habit to face opposite the direction of London traffic as we Americans travel on the other side of the road. And everything looked garish and tilted and a little scary as my brain struggled to awaken and make sense of another day of travel.

Once I printed my ticket, dutifully offering my pre-ordered code - and found the right set of tracks, I shivered once again. Setting off for the nearest coffee shop, I ordered a large (on which I burnt my tongue) and picked up some shortbread. As I nibbled and sipped, I availed myself of the free signal and answered some emails that had been beyond my capability the night before.

I enjoy the trains - the smooth journey interrupted by the occasional wiggle or pause to change passengers, the ability to read or stand or stare out windows as the landscape zips by pleasantly.

A little keyed up from the excess of coffee, I sipped some water and watched the world go by as we headed north.

The sun was up and shining merrily along the way and I alighted, taking care - as signs directed - to watch my step from the train to the platform. Finding another coffee shop while I waited for my host, I switched it up with a cappuccino and a brownie. And soon felt sick from the caffeine and sugar.

We talked and worked and talked some more. And when finished, we found the car and headed southwest, chasing the setting sun.

"Where are the sheep?" I asked as we followed the motorway. "I like sheep."

"I'm sure they're around," he replied, shifting smoothly and increasing speed as we both grew increasingly tired.

"Sheep are fluffy," I offered, my words slurred and eyelids heavy.

"Like a nice pillow," I continued when he didn't answer after a moment.

"You've never met a sheep, have you, love?" he asked, glancing over at me with a smile.

"Not so much," I grinned back, keeping an eye out for the fluffy creatures as night fell and we arrived to sleep and dream and work another day tomorrow.

Progression of Pretty, Part Final

Perhaps if you study hard and discover truths and achieve greatness, someone will build a statue of you looking thoughtful.

Then a bird will land on the head of that statue and make me giggle. So I win in the end, yes? For greatness is fleeting - I have departed from Venice.

I gave musicians money throughout Italy - I like to think I'm a patron, especially of heavy coins instead of real money made of paper. So violin guy was cool with me taking a photo. I think.

I ate here, more because I was freezing - having left my coat at the hotel with my bags - than anything. The food was OK. The guy in charge was sort of mean.
And the tiramisu - though a bit deconstructed-looking - was delicious. So I win in the end.

With cocoa and sugar on top.


There's a chance that I didn't pay for my second boat ride on the actv line back to the hotel.

Dear Venice - Very sorry. Love, Katie

I did pay for my boat ride to the airport. And flight to CDG. And subsequent flight to LHR. And subsequent car to my hotel so I can sleep for a few hours before catching my train tomorrow morning. (Oh, my life is so hard after spending an exquisite weekend in Venice... Poor Katie...)

Actually, I did have some moderate anxiety issues while there - I just kept pretending it wasn't happening. But more on that when we're away from the pretty, yes?

Progression of Pretty, Part 4

Progression of Pretty, Part 3

"People in Europe like dogs therefore I like people in Europe," I told a colleague in France, but the trend continues to Italy as canine companions trot about the narrow streets and over the steps on bridges.

I waited impatiently for the light to change as the sun took its leave. It's such a lovely set of moments though, where everything becomes bathed in pastels that deepen into my favorite shade of blue and then to inky black.
My favorite shade of blue... And also a bellini!

"You won't be cold?" the hostess asked when I requested this table outside. 'I will,' I thought though I assured her I was fine, 'but it's worthwhile.'

And it was - the colorful petals on the flowers planted nearby, the shifting colors as night fell, the sound of waves crashing against the bridge as boats passed. It was breathtaking.


By the time I'd finished dinner - Pizza Calzone with ham and mushroom and the most wonderful cheese - the blue had eased and black emerged. So I took the short walk back to my hotel to read and rest and dream.

Progression of Pretty, Part 2

My guidebooks all advised "getting lost in Venice" both literally and figuratively. I finally decided that most people must typically know where they are when traveling. I do not. Therefore, I found the maze of sidewalks and bridges remarkably refreshing.

If there's only one way to go, one cannot really get lost.


I said a prayer of gratitude before taking this - the church was empty except for me and the woman arranging flowers.

These made me smile when I saw them, when I downloaded the photo and when I uploaded it to my blog.

As far as I could tell, the plan was to look at the pretty and shop. So that's what I did.



Oh! Then I was a little tired of seeing the pretty and shopping so I did as advised and found a spot with no tourists and stopped for lunch. This was spinach and cheese tortellini with butter and sage. It was perfection. I'm not sure how I'm going to enjoy food after eating in Italy and appreciating how pasta should taste.

Flowers! I needed something to break up all the photos of buildings and shops.
I seem to be on a 'walk two hours then rest a bit' schedule. So I'm back in my suite, having showered and opened my windows (3 windows!) to the sunshine and fresh air of the lagoon view. I think I may nap a bit before setting out again.

Oops - they've called to clean the room as I arrived back when it was apparently my turn. So I've come to the bar to drink my Coke Zero and await my clean room. (Which I wouldn't have made them do, but it cost the earth and I wanted to show you photos without my clutter marring the pretty.)

Progression of Pretty, Part 1

"I would not want such a pretty guest to get lost," the man at reception said when I returned from my walk this morning and asked - albeit belatedly - for a map. I laughed because I looked thrown-together at best, having awakened before dawn but lazing until the sky started to brighten. At which point I threw on clothes and grabbed my camera so as not to lose the changes in lighting for such a beautiful place.

You'll likely have to indulge me several of these photo posts while I'm here. I like words - perhaps too much - but I find I don't have them when I'm so enchanted. So this is like me grabbing your hand of tugging your sleeve or slipping my arm through yours while walking so I could say, "Look... Isn't it bellissima?"

Avanti

There is a restaurant called Avanti's that we frequented when I was little. They had paper placemats that were printed with maps of Italy and tiny illustrations of the various cities. I vividly remember the leaning tower and the funny-looking boat.

"Those are gondolas," Grandma said. "Not like the sandwich they serve here, but these long boats they use in a place called Venice. They have canals instead of streets - like sidewalks filled with water - and people ride the boats instead of using cars."

I found that to be quite intriguing, though I've never been a big fan of boats. But I smiled when I realized I had a weekend in Italy - easily forsaking Rome or Florence for this city with water for streets.

It was meant to be hard to get here - I had planned to leave my hotel no later than 4:30AM to catch the first of 2 flights south. We'd then get a car, drive for an hour, take 3 hours of meetings and begin to repeat the process in order for me to reach Venice around midnight. And that was fine because I am here to work and I like my job, even apart from the fact that it sends me to Italy.

But when plans changed, I was shamefully thrilled that I could sleep late. I awakened feeling rested, showered and dressed, and climbed the stairs to the rooftop garden so I could overlook Bologna as I caught up on some work.

I shook my head between typing emails and taking pictures because who does that? Sits in rooftop gardens overlooking an ancient Italian city? It's just too wonderful.

My colleagues came to fetch me and I trotted out to the car, all packed and ready to complimented on how little luggage I needed. They obliged and we covered a couple of topics that required discussion before pausing to purchase a train ticket since the flight I'd booked from Rome wasn't going to do me much good.

"Now our priority is the lunch," one announced and I was pleased to agree as I'd not had breakfast. So we went to the countryside - over a one-lane bridge - to this little, old cottage that was now a trattoria.

It was at Avanti's where I took my first bite of tortellini smothered in meat sauce with a layer of melted mozzarella on top. I felt very adult that I didn't order pizza bread or a gondola. Today, I had fresh, homemade tortellini in broth - apparently a Bolognese specialty. And I felt like a child as I focused on nothing but tastes and textures and scents of this simply amazing food.

She then brought bread shaped like small pancakes which we cut open to place ham or salami or motadella inside. "We call this bologna," I smiled and nibbled again. "I've not had it since I was little, but it's delicious." And then I had one more.

"She likes the sweets," my colleague told the waitress in Italian and I nodded. I do like the sweets. So we had mascarpone with chocolate. And I drank a cappuccino. And I was full and happy and wishing for a nap.

Instead, I took a phone call at the office before catching a train and racing east. I followed my fellow passengers through the station and emerged at the top of some steps and caught my breath at the canal sparkling before me.

I just stood for a moment before reaching for my camera, thinking the life twists and turns a good deal. I wished fervently that I could take Grandma's hand and stare at the darkening sky and shimmering lights. Listen to the water lapping at the structures it bordered. And breathe in the smell of the sea.

In Bologna on the first day...

I s-l-e-p-t...

In Bologna on the second day...

I smiled back at the accordion player resting on the stoop underneath the porticoes. I'd given him 2 Euros on my first trip past him as I made my way toward the city center from my hotel. I supposed we were friends now and wondered if he'd offer sympathy when told I'd become terribly lost and had apparently wandered in a large circle. I had, you see, not planned to see him again but was grateful for the landmark, such as it was.

As an introduction to Italy, Bologna is charming. Smart and liberal, ancient and lovely, I wandered the flat streets on a gorgeous day, sweater fluttering around my waist as the hem of my skirt tickled the backs of my knees.

Despite the easy arrival at BLQ and quick taxi ride to my internationally-friendly hotel (with a giant bed and impressive view of the city), I could not get to sleep last night. So I awakened predictably grumpy and wishing I could sleep more and work less. But a huge breakfast - rolls, croissant, chocolate croissant, cheeses and ham and bologna (!), eggs, coffee and fruit so soft and sweet I closed my eyes to savor it - improved my mood enough to set off on a limited-time adventure before I was to meet a colleague.

I got lost, of course, because my sense of direction is the exact opposite of correct. Even knowing this, I possess this odd belief that I must be oriented correctly until I exist in a place far from where I meant to be.

So then I turn around.

But getting lost in the sunshine under either a bright blue sky or elegantly arching porticoes seemed not such as disaster. I was also carrying naught but my tiny bag and felt deliciously unencumbered after my Parisian trudge.

Finally deciding that Via Maggiore must go to Piazza Maggiore if I went in the correct direction, I did find Neptune ruling over his fountain. He was smaller than I expected, which made me smile. (Because he was naked.) (Never mind.)

I went to stand between the 2 Towers as per the plan and admired their slants, deciding I found the tipsy tilt adorable as I thought of weak foundations under too-large egos. And I waited for quite some time because Italian time apparently only has a loose relationship with actual clocks. But then we went for coffee and a sweet and I lapsed into silence while having a private moment with my tiramisu.

We worked and then I waited while she caught up with other Italian counterparts, stifling a yawn and sighs of impatience. I returned to my room to catch up on some email and freshen up before dinner.

"15 minutes?" I guessed when asked how long we spent eating where I live. "Maybe 30."

When my Italian companions looked shocked and appalled, I smiled and sipped some more wine before reaching for more bread and cheese (and pasta and vegetables and more pasta and other kinds of cheese).

"I'm sorry," I apologized 3 hours later. "But it's after 11. And I'm exhausted - just too Midwestern to handle it."

Still, I've loved to visit both these days...
And if you ask me why, I'll say...
Oscar Mayer has a way with b-o-l-o-g-n-a.