Kept Secrets of London

From the dark and creepy halls of the Tower, to the stately Georgian rows of Kensington, to the glitz and glamour of Piccadilly (by the way, can you think of a word that is more fun to say in the English language than Piccadilly?), I love London.

And as a self-proclaimed anglophile, I have spent a lifetime worshipping the English culture. So when I’m walking the streets of London, I can’t help but harken back to those pages of the history books when Lords and Ladies held court; decisive battles were fought; heads were cut off. The world of Shakespeare comes to life; thee’s and thou’s cascading embarrassingly from my lips. And Dickens, my beloved Dickens, comes to me. I see street urchins picking the pockets of unsuspecting marks; brightly dressed young men busy in their studies; and old misers rushing on their way to work. If these shadows remain unaltered…

We all know the names and stories. And I think it’s becoming very clear to all of you just how much of a closet geek I truly am. And so it is only with great trepidation that I reveal one of my innermost secrets, my guiltiest pleasure when I visit London. Read no further if you want to maintain yourself as cool and indifferent.

Among all the museums, landmarks, stages, and pubs, my favorite place of all in London is the British Library. Yes, the Library. Stacks and stacks of books lining shelves holding the world’s knowledge; the aroma of moldy pages mingled with dust; the profound reverence of the quiet.

My first visit to this pantheon of geekness was at the suggestion of my husband, a self-proclaimed geek who accepted himself years ago. He has a thing for maps (he collects them, studies them, and can read any map of any place and immediately make it his own). So when he found out that the British Library has an extensive collection of ancient maps, many of them by the “big names” of mapmaking that only he and a few others would even recognize, he asked if we could spend a morning there. It was only going to be an hour or so and then we could move on to something else, he assured me.

Off to the Library we went, and at the top of the stairs we came to the map exhibit which had my husband in a trance and me mildly curious. But as I left him in his ecstasy to venture further, I came to another area of the exhibit that called to me: cases and cases of rare books on display from every possible place and time in history.

The first area I came to was a collection of ancient religious texts from something ridiculous like 3 minutes after the death of Christ, some of them in Aramaic. I walked back to my husband and told him: “You know they have fragments of text in Aramaic? You gotta come see this.” My husband is also a lover of linguistics (I told you he was a geek) and so this actually got him away from the maps.

We went through, piece by piece, as the gospels evolved into beautifully illuminated medieval Bibles with ornate decorations surrounding figures of people, animals, and sometimes combinations of both, making it more like an art gallery than a library.

The next area was filled with some of the earliest known written materials from all over the world: scrolls, papyrus, animal skins, and silk. And then, we reached the history section; this was the one that got me. The Magna Carta wasn’t good enough. They had to show off with the document that pre-dated and influenced the Magna Carta, as well as the document signed by the Pope saying the Magna Carta was invalid. We stood there dumbfounded, taking in the ancient writing, the humongous wax seals, the utter magnitude of the thing (or should I say magna magnitude?). It went on and on: laws and documents signed and sealed by Kings; letters signed by Queen Elizabeth and Mary Queen of Scots. Then on to the science section with the big three: Galileo’s earliest writings, notebooks, and publications; Newton’s books and letters, Darwin’s notes. As I went through, something dawned on me, and I turned to my husband and asked, “You know, with such an extensive collection, wouldn’t you think they’d have a Guttenberg Bible?” And next up, in the very next case: a Guttenberg Bible. Of course they had it.

I was already in heaven. And then, we hit it: the area that brought me to my literary knees. The first Shakespeare Folio was sitting right there among documents signed by the Bard himself. Just on the other side of the glass, I could almost touch it. Be still my heart. Then on to the Dickens case with first editions of everything: Great Expectations with the original ending and with the revised ending, the first Christmas Carol. If I could own a first edition anything, it would be A Christmas Carol. Writings by the Bronte sisters, Jane Austen, Lewis Carroll, and every other great English writer imaginable were there. I wanted a cozy chair, a sunlit window, and hours to read.

And just in case you thought the English were stuffy and had no sense of the modern world, an entire case was dedicated to the Beatles: lyrics to the most recognizable songs in the world were right there written on scraps of paper. There were doodles by John Lennon, letters, autographs, and every other possible piece that could be connected to the Fab Four.

We went to the British Library in the morning daylight with the intention of spending an hour or so. We didn’t so much leave as emerge, eight hours later, in the dark of night, like Moses coming down from the mountaintop after seeing God, light radiating from our faces. We could not believe the scope and sheer vastness of their collections, with something for everybody on any possible subject.

It is now my favorite place in London, and mostly undiscovered, as most tourists will go to the other, better-known collections in the city. And although I visited it years ago, that day still sticks in my mind; so much so that I built an entire tour around it so that others could visit the great libraries of England. On your next visit to London, you might want to give it a try, but be warned, this is such stuff as dreams are made on, and you might not want to leave.

Renaissance Journeys is offering a Great Libraries of England Tour this Fall. For more information, please email: info@renaissancejourneys.com

If you’d like to hear more meanderings on travel, you can like Renaissance Journeys on Facebook.

The Fruits of Pompeii

After an arduous March, as March tends to be, I am ready to open my arms to the splendors of Spring: the warmth, the sun, the flowers and new life everywhere. In my case, that new life is also realized in the arrival of the newest member of the family, my great nephew (great as in he’s wonderful, and also because he is the first child of my eldest niece). And for those of you wondering, I happened to have been a very young aunt – so I’m not quite ready yet for the polyester and bingo nights…

But I digress. Back to Spring and the beauty it brings to everything. When these days hit, it’s almost sacrilegious to remain indoors, and my husband and I are finding more and more reasons to be outside, including a lavish and beautiful picnic in Central Park last Friday. And like many moments in my life, the bliss of that moment brought to mind other times and places…

Pompeii, city of mystery and melancholy; where you walk through the streets and thoroughfares and can’t help but connect with the ancient citizens and wonder what you might have been doing on the day Vesuvius erupted: how would you have reacted? would you have survived? It is a chilling place, but also wondrous as you walk down Roman roads trodden for centuries by countless visitors, enter Roman villas with elaborately whimsical frescos, and see mundane signs of everyday life: herb gardens, decorative statuettes, and even graffiti. But the one thing you won’t see in Pompeii is a decent place to eat.

It’s a common mistake that most tourists make. Everywhere else in Europe, from the most visited site to the most far-reaching little landmark, inevitably has a snack bar, a food stand, a restaurant, and a chintzy but fun souvenir stand. In the vast expanse of the excavations of the entire city of Pompeii, there is only one cafeteria; and after walking through the captivating remains of the ancient world and marveling at the grandeur of Rome, it’s more than a little disappointing to have standard tourist fare that is far less than epic. The juxtaposition of the hard modern seats in a darkened, stagnant room, with bland, lifeless food, when the magnificence of the ancient world stands outside, all around you, is almost as tragic as the city’s destruction.

This is why one of the best tips to my Renaissance Journeys clients is to pack a picnic lunch when heading for the day to Pompeii. Whether driving or taking the train, it takes about 15 minutes to stop in the shops in the modern city of Pompeii, just outside the main gateway. Here you can delve into the culture and feel like a local, with short visits to the bakery, the deli, and the fruit stand – and you’re in Southern Italy here, so this is the stuff. (Don’t worry if you don’t speak Italian. Many of these shop owners are well versed in English, and if not, a smile and a finger point will take you a long way).

Now remember, in Italy, there’s no such thing as a 7/11, so you can’t go to just one place and have them make a sandwich – (Well you can, but it’s cheating. You can go to the local bar and have them wrap ready-made sandwiches for you, and they won’t be bad, but they won’t be as good). So to truly shop and eat like a local, you go to a number of different specialty shops and put your lunch together. I normally start with the deli (or salumeria), and load up on salamis, because there is no hunger in life that can’t be satisfied by a truly good Italian salami. From hot to sweet, they’ll have it all, just remember to have them slice it for you, because you can’t bring a knife into the area of the excavations.

Then you can add a few local cheeses. I always look for those I haven’t tried before, just to give me the feel for the local flavors that are so characteristic to each region in Italy. (If you ask nicely, shopkeepers will even let you taste them to make sure you like it). Again, have them slice it for you. Also, glance around the shop to see what else they’re selling, and if it looks good, it probably is; so add it to the bag and then it’s on to the next place.

Now in Italy, every self-respecting salumeria is right next to the bakery (or forno) and a good fruit stand or shop, and Pompeii is no exception. On the same street, you’ll find a great forno where you can go and pick your bread. If you’re a little particular and you want it cut just right, they’ll do it for you. But if you’re me, there is nothing like ripping a piece of freshly baked bread, so I usually get a long loaf. They’ll also have small breads for sandwiches (or panini – and by the way, the singular of panini is panino, – a pet peeve of mine in American “Italian” restaurants). Now the bakery should also have some nice little sweets or cookies. Feel free to load up on a few for dessert. After all, this is going to be a long day of walking, so any additional calories will be completely cancelled out by a run up the steps of the great amphitheatre. You’re covered.

Then it’s on to the fruit shop. I normally get some tomatoes for my sandwich, but beware that this isn’t for the faint of heart. You can’t have them sliced because they’ll just mush up in the pack; and you can’t bring a knife into the site with you. Being half-Sicilian, my hands can be used as a knife and can surprisingly slice a tomato quite cleanly and efficiently with no assistance whatsoever. If you don’t have that gene, then you might want to skip the tomato; but remember, you’re in Southern Italy, and the fruit here is food for the gods. You won’t get figs, peaches, berries, or any other fruit for that matter that is as good as it’s grown here, so be sure to get a few of your favorites.

Now you’ve got your lunch, but you still don’t have the pièce de la resistance. Remember that bar I talked about? Well, you’ll want to go there now and pick yourself out a nice bottle of local wine. If you like white, you can get one that is chilled here. And if red is more your game, they’ll have plenty of choices. Be sure to ask them to open it up for you before you leave, as the same rule of the knife in Pompeii holds true for a corkscrew. (Besides, even if you brought a corkscrew on your trip, what are the chances that you actually remembered to bring it with you from the hotel?) Remember to recork the bottle and store it safely in your bags to prevent spillage. It might seem like a hassle, but believe me, you’ll be happy you did.

And finally, you’ll also want to bring a few large bottles of water with you. You can get them at the bar, again chilled, and you’ll need it for all that wine. Also, the ruins are vast, and the days get hot in Pompeii, so without any convenient snack bars or stands in the ruins, you’re mostly on your own for water. And you don’t really want to drink from the water fountains there – trust me. So bring plenty of water and keep hydrated. (You’ll also want to wash your fruit with it, so save some for that).

And what, you may ask, are you expected to carry all this stuff in? If you’ve got a backpack or two, a bike bag, or some other comfortable sac, bring it with you. I normally bring one or two backpacks so that I can distribute the weight among a few people; but if not, the stores will provide bags; and it is allowed to bring backpacks and small bags inside the ruins. One last note, even if you’ve brought your own sacs, remember to get a few of the bags from the shops anyway, as you will need these later to either store leftovers or throw out your trash. And please remember to deposit your trash in a receptacle. There is nothing worse than touring one of the most beautiful sites of the ancient world and seeing a very modern bottle or bag sticking out like an eyesore, ruining the view and that perfect picture you were hoping to get.

Once you’re inside the excavations, you will be captivated as you walk the streets of the Romans, noting the worn strips in the stones where wagons once passed; touring ancients homes from the most modest rooms to the stateliest villas; passing by the ancient shops mimicking the ones you’ve just visited: the forno, the olive oil stand, the tavern; and of course, lingering in the majestic buildings of the Forum, the heart of the ancient city, lined with the remains of temples and governments buildings that once embodied the greatness of Rome. All the time, the sun that shone on Pompeian citizens so long ago will warm you; you’ll hear the voices of the past speak to you, your throat will be parched and lined with the dust of the old city, and you’ll be ready for your lunch.

You will find many breathtaking spots calling out to you. The small theatre is one of my favorites as there’s seating room and room to spread out your lunch. Afterwards, it is not impossible that I will be coaxed to go onstage and recite a poem or sing. You might find that refreshing wine on a sunny day does that to you, so you might want to prepare a little something. Sometimes passersby will even join in. But if the theatre is not your thing, there are so many other areas to choose from that you will be sure to find the perfect spot: in the grass among the flowers, under the arcade of the gladiators’ barracks, against the ruins of the temple of Hera; wherever you’re hungry and inspired.

I never send a client to Pompeii without this advice; and so far, every one of them has returned and told me that this moment, sitting on a dazzlingly sunny day against the backdrop of Roman ruins, with a glass of wine and hearty local fare shared among family, friends, and lovers, was the most memorable moment of the trip.

Where is your favorite picnic spot?

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For more information on Pompeii, or a consultation on your travels, contact Maria Puma at info@renaissancejourneys.com.

Pictures courtesy of Laura Puma.

Malta's Magic

There is nothing quite as inspiring to the imagination as a great marina; boats lined along arcing shores, filled with the promise of exploration and intrigue. Nantucket’s marinas embody its shores like a skyline defines a great city. The marina of Naples is immortalized in countless heart-wrenching songs. Coastlines on the Mediterranean are dotted with rustic medieval villages and busy thoroughfares sprouted from great marinas. Trade, prosperity, cultural exchange, and indeed, progress itself are the natural fulfillment of thriving marinas. But nowhere in the world is the marina raised to the level of art form as in Malta. Set on gracious walkways with room to sit and linger over sweeping views to the sea beyond, Malta’s marinas grace every town and are the center of cultural activity, with bustling marketplaces, hot restaurant scenes, and almost daily local festivals.

The characteristic boats of Malta decorate its shores with astonishing colors, like gemstones gleaming on a brilliant crown. Said to date back to the time of the Phoenicians, these simple fishing boats are as beautiful as they are functional, with elegantly curved bodies ending in the accentuated points of bows that cut through the sea with the utmost grace and efficiency. These boats do not bore the seascape with the washed-out, unimaginative colors of simple whites or battered grays; but rather challenge the very blue of the Mediterranean with an array of hues from turquoise to cobalt, and highlights in sunny yellows, cheerful oranges, or taunting reds. Unchanged for centuries, possibly even millennia, each fishing boat still marks its bow with a small but noticeable pair of stylized eyes, wide and colorful, and offset by harshly dark outlines, they stare out from the front of the boat, lifelike, guiding the way on its passage. Legend holds that these are representations of the mythical eyes of Isis, believed to protect the boats from harm; a testament to Malta’s ever-enduring connection to the Sea.

My husband and I went to Malta, for the same reason that Everest was climbed, because it was there; and so we took a side trip from our visit to Sicily to spend some time exploring this new place. Although many Europeans, especially the British, have flocked to Malta for its island appeal of fine beaches, resorts and nightlife; my husband and I actually delved into its unique and fascinating history. Known for its association with the Templar knights, I half expected to find myself in a Dan Brown novel searching for the one true grail; so I was a bit surprised to find that the Templars didn’t arrive in Malta until the 16th century. Instead of the medieval hamlets with heavily carved stonework and looming gothic figures that I had envisioned, I was met with charming baroque cities, all uniform in a delicate sand color, with intricate decorations around balconied windows and ornate doorways.

In a culture dominated by the historic protectors of the church, of course there are churches -- many churches -- dripping with evidence of legendary riches. Dramatic in their abundance and overwhelming in their opulence, each church is crammed full with towering altar pieces in sterling silver and heavy drapery in red and gold silks and velvets. Most striking of all, surrounding each imposing structure are myriad statues of church figures, depicted in colorful robes and adorned with crowns and staffs of gold, with unexpected and slightly disturbing painted faces gazing out in stern judgment or divine ecstasy. Most churches are situated right along the shore, blessing Malta’s union with the sea, but even those churches that are further away, soar to heights that allow all to view them from any vantage point, basking in their protection and in the confidence that God is never far from the seafaring.

And with a culture so driven by its ties to the church, there are festivals -- one for practically every day of the week, -- when these already ornate churches are hyper-decorated with finery and silver; the streets overflowing and the marinas alive with vivid decorations, sweet local delicacies, and merry traditional music. Locals fill the streets, and the celebrations last well into the night, long after the church procession has ended and the last of the fireworks has reflected in the sea.

We also found a culture that stretched way back to pre-history, not surprising for a land forever at the crossroads of the Mediterranean, with sites so old, they make Stonehenge look like a newcomer to the ancient scene. These sites are better preserved than any other sites of their age, with ancient carvings and statuettes that look surprisingly post-modern in their stylized simplicity. The most dramatic of these stand against the sea, another reminder of Malta’s close and never-ending relationship with the Mediterranean.

Wherever we went, whatever town we visited or site we toured, we came back each time to the marina. Each town has one, and each one is absolutely breathtaking in its delicate embrace with the sea. There are upscale marinas that cater to wealthy yachters looking for a playground; there are rustic marinas overflowing with those distinct fishing boats and markets showcasing the day’s freshest catch; there are trendy marinas with fashionable cafés or restaurants taking advantage of the dazzling sunsets; and there are quiet, more remote marinas with enchanting views and a few benches to sit and linger.

Even our hotel offered views of either the sea or the marina. The sea view was unavailable to us our first night, so we were actually considering changing rooms the second night; until we sat on our balcony over the marina with a bottle of wine and watched the lights change on the water as the boats gently lapped against their restraints, aching to venture out again into that welcoming and mysterious sea. We decided that nothing could compare to that view, and so we kept that room for the rest of our stay.

In Malta, there are marinas everywhere -- because the country is made up of islands; because every small town there has faced the sea throughout history; because the culture and survival of the Maltese has always depended on it; and because it is the only way to truly honor their long and enduring bond with the sea. To understand this, is to understand Malta.

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Malta is not an easy destination to get to, as there are no direct flights from the U.S. It is sometimes included on cruise itineraries; but the best way to get there is to add it to another destination in Europe. There are direct flights from Milan, Sicily, France, London and other points in Europe. If you’d like more information on Malta, just post a question or comment.

For more quick info on Malta and its sites, stay tuned for more blogs in the next few weeks…

Have you been inspired by a marina? Where is your favorite and how did it affect you?

Traveling Home

Sometimes I’m just not sure what to write about. There are so many places I’ve been and so many places I’ve dreamed of going that they all run through my head one after another in a string of favorite experiences and elaborate new plans. And when a travel dream is fulfilled, there is nothing quite as meaningful, sometimes life-changing. I’ve known so many people who come back from a trip and tell me that they wish they could have stayed longer. And when I was studying abroad, there were countless fellow classmates scheming and hoping to extend their studies into a long-term career. But I recently visited Ellis Island, and for all my travels, it is sometimes a wonderful thing to visit and appreciate your own country.

My grandparents sacrificed everything to come to this country. It is a story we’ve all heard recounted over and over again by our elders, ad infinitum; but to really stop and think about it is a powerful insight, especially in this economy when so many have had a rough 2009 where we might have lost some things we’ve maybe taken for granted. When I stop and think about it, I’ve lived a pretty storied life. I’ve never worried about where my next meal was coming from, whether or not I would have a roof over my head, whether or not I could go to school, worship where and when I pleased, and gone where I wanted. What would it take for me to leave everything I ever knew? How bad would it have to be for me to say to my family, I’m leaving and may never see you again?

For my grandfathers, that motivation was poverty; not the poverty that we may have seen or heard about; but real I-have-nothing-to-eat poverty, and every bite I take is one less morsel for my family. My paternal grandfather was 16 years old when he left his family to come and find work in the U.S. At 16, I was lucky to get a babysitting job for some quick spending money.

As you go through Ellis Island, you hear 1st person accounts of the many reasons why so many left all they knew and loved. The harsh realities of the time come pouring in as you are brought step-by-step through the stages of the immigration process: long lines, confusing processes in a foreign language, frightening medical exams, separation from family members, and the inevitable hoards of parasitic ne’er-do-wells, attracted by the vulnerable, waiting in the sidelines to exploit the newly arrived. As you move through the rooms, you are presented with startlingly vivid personal accounts telling what went through their minds at that very moment. The accounts are sometimes horrifying, sometimes inspiring, and always touching.

The museum does not try to sugar coat the past. It gives an unbiased view of the many cases and experiences of those who came through, some straightforward and relatively easy, and some harshly difficult and traumatizing; but I must say that for me, it offers an incredible perspective of – here it comes, the trite but true – the people who made this country great. One case that struck me particularly, was the account of a child who was detained at Ellis Island because of the measles. She was scared and separated from her family, but was consoled by a caring nurse who brought her little toys to help pass the time in her solitude. The voice of an old woman spoke of that great kindness after so many years and how it would be remembered forever.

My grandfathers went on to have jobs, not the best-paying, and certainly not the most suited to their talents, but they earned a living, went on to have children and grandchildren who were well educated, successful, and never spent a day worrying about having enough to eat. It was a lifetime before my grandfather could be reunited with his family, a family he supported like so many others, by always remembering to send a portion of what he made back home. When he met his brother, it had been over 50 years since they had seen each other; mere boys when they were separated, they were now old men; and when they met, they embraced and cried.

Sometimes, travel brings you back to where you are and helps you appreciate what you have, the lessons learned, and a life well spent. 2009 was not an easy year for most of us. For 2010, I wish you a happy, healthy, and prosperous new year, one where you have more than what you need, and you appreciate all you have.

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For a few tips on visiting Ellis Island, the most important is the website: http://www.ellisisland.org/, where you can get information on the experience, buy tickets, and you can even do a search for your ancestors.

My recommendation is to combine your trip with a visit to the Statue of Liberty and to pre-register for tickets. This not only allows you to avoid the long ticket lines, but also ensures that you can climb to the top of the Statue of Liberty, which usually sells out early.

It takes a full day to visit both sites.

The Illusive Chef of Erice

And now that I’ve spent so much time discussing a Chef whose food you will never have the opportunity to sample, I thought it only fair to tell you about another one of my favorites, one particularly close to my heart, still steadfastly practicing his craft...

In my beloved Sicily, mythic land of my forefathers, there is a town set high on a cliff above the far-reaching expanse of the Mediterranean Sea. The town is called Erice and, in contrast to the dazzling whitewashed setting of the Moors you’ve visited in my blog on Mijas; Erice has the serene and resolute beauty of a medieval Norman installation. In Erice, the towers, fortress, homes, piazzas, and cobblestoned streets are carved from thick white rock which lends the city its characteristic shimmer as the sun reflects off its walls.

I am so enamored with Erice’s many charms, that I was married there. But that’s another story.

The very first time I saw Erice was on the approach to it from the road. Rising high above the sea in the distance, you could enjoy its splendor for miles, but as in all fabled lands of myth, the closer you got, the further away it seemed. I couldn’t help but think of ancient, weary travelers, making their way slowly up the arduous inclines. But once its summit is reached, Erice more than rewards the effort. The elegantly austere architecture, unchanged for centuries, envelopes the steep, narrow pedestrian pathways, now leading up, now down, following the natural curve of the mountain, then opening up to small, flower-filled piazzas, and stunning scenic overlooks.

I was traveling with my sister and nephew, and we immediately fell in love with the place. We took about a million pictures of the town from every small corner and every high tower, browsed the shops, and visited the Cathedral. Then we got really hungry. It was early for the local lunch time, but we couldn’t help ourselves. We peeked into the lobby of the tiny Hotel Elimo, the one place that looked like it might be open. It was filled with period furniture crammed around a grand piano against a backdrop of myriad pictures on an exposed stone wall – that ever-present, beautiful white stone.

The host responded with a characteristic Sicilian grimace when we asked if they were serving yet. And after checking on their readiness and giving us a look up and down, he invited us in to the magnificent dining room. Yet more exposed stone walls, unadorned and dramatic in their simplicity, framed the row of windows at the end of the room with an unobstructed view of the city; its rooftops, uniform in their ancient sun-baked colors, steadily giving way to the epic Sicilian countryside far below. Beyond that, the mystical Egadi Islands gracefully floated on the blue, blue sea. This is the kind of room and the kind of view one does not easily forget.

The waiter brought the menu, which was rich with Sicilian specialties: pasta alla norma, a hearty pasta with ricotta salata, fresh tomato, and eggplant; -- eggplant, the ever-present Sicilian staple so indelibly linked with the island’s history (and Sicily is the only place in the world where they know what to do with it); -- swordfish involtini, a delicately sliced fillet of swordfish, stuffed and rolled in breadcrumbs and cooked to a tender perfection in a sauce of white wine, butter, and lemon; and of course, as is necessary for any self-respecting Sicilian restaurant, a veritable bounty of the freshest fish just out of the sea.

We ordered an array of dishes (remember we were really hungry) and ate family style (not that the restaurant serves in this way; but when I’m with family, it’s just understood that everyone will share). The Chef made the simplest, most ubiquitous Sicilian staples extraordinary. We were stunned with our good fortune as we went from a mixed antipasto of perfectly grilled vegetables and my sweet caponata (another Sicilian variation of the esteemed eggplant, slowly simmered with olives and vegetables and caramelized by balsamic vinegar); to a mix of pastas, some highlighting the freshest fish while others accentuated local meats in a rich tomato base; and finally on to the exalted catch of the day, some grilled simply so that you could appreciate their delicate flavors, and others that were bathed in sauces that melted in your mouth. Nowhere in the world do they prepare fish like in Sicily; and nowhere in Sicily had I tasted the local cuisine prepared with such startling and succulent subtlety. This was not only a more decent meal than we had expected, but we had stumbled on a gold mine. Without knowing it, we were in the skilled hands of the much acclaimed local celebrity chef, Carmelo Tilotta, who is renowned for his mastery of Sicilian cuisine and his wondrous creativity with the island’s endless bounty.

As we sat and raved, we garnered the attention of the stern waiter, who swelled with pride, slowly but surely warming to us as most Sicilians will; wary at first of foreigners, undoubtedly a characteristic defense long ingrained in a people with a history of invasion. As the granddaughter of Sicilian immigrants, this is perfectly normal to me; but my nephew, a generation removed, was taken aback. I told him to hang in there; Sicilians don’t open up to just anybody, but once cracked, they have a warmth and affection that are genuine and overwhelming. In Sicily, you are either a foreigner, or family.

By the end of the meal, we were happily full, and a cast of characters surrounded our table wanting to know us better, our dour waiter smiling broadly as he learned of our Sicilian grandparents -- from this region no less, -- and he laughed heartily, slapping my nephew on the back when I translated his jokes. They bid us farewell with the bittersweet yearning of friends who want to see more of you, yet know that the pleasure will be reserved for the far distant future. We left without meeting the illusive Chef Tilotta, whose acclaim we wouldn’t learn of until later, and who is surprisingly shy despite his success.

That day and that meal would stay with me. So a few years later, when my husband first proposed and we were deciding where to have the wedding, we chose Erice. Of course, the choice for the reception was obvious. It had to be the spectacular room at the Hotel Elimo and the extraordinary talents of Chef Tilotta. But as I’ve already told you, that would be for another time and another story...

Ode to the Paella Goddess

And now that I’ve opened the subject of Spain, let’s continue with the memory rush…

Mijas (pronounced mee’ – haas) is a delightfully small hilltop town in Southern Spain, in the region of Andalucia; a region marked by the utterly spectacular confluence of Spanish and Moorish cultures divinely expressed throughout its architecture, art, culture and cuisine.

Mijas, in the Moorish tradition of city planning, has quaintly beautiful whitewashed houses dizzyingly arranged around the city’s center with sweeping views of the mountain and coast below. The Moors certainly knew how to pick their settings. To meander through the streets of Mijas, is to take a little journey up in the clouds. You can spend a perfectly pleasant day enjoying the main square, scenic overlooks, and small, characteristic shops. (I love the ceramics there -- a personal obsession of mine -- with some of the best examples in all of Spain).

The first time I visited Mijas was on a brilliantly sunny day when the light made the city shine; and my friends and I immediately fell in love with it. So we decided to extend our stay with a late lunch. We had read about a little restaurant on the cliff right off the main square where the Chef was known for paella. Paella --- the king of Spanish dishes – the perfect marriage of fish and meat on a succulent bed of rice – how could we possibly resist?

The restaurant was not easy to find, hiding behind a cover of trees blocking the edge of the cliff; the only entrance forebodingly situated at the top of a steep, unmarked, and unwelcoming staircase. Thankfully, the guide book warned us of this. But the restaurant didn’t look open, so I told my friends I would brave the stairs and take a look to see what I could find.

At the top of the stairs was indeed a restaurant and the door was indeed open; but there was no one inside. Tables were arranged around the dining area, but no lights were on and there was no sign of life, until I called out, “Hello?”

First I heard the shuffle, the belabored approach of dragging feet; then around the bend, out of a Hitchcock movie, slowly and deliberately, came an old woman, small of stature with short, straight, mousy brown hair, wearing a worn house dress, white Dr. Scholl’s sandals, and a stern look on her face.

“Si?” she barked at me.

So in my rudimentary Spanish, I asked if she was open for lunch. To which she again replied, no more warmly than the first time, “Si.” I looked around a bit incredulous, given the barren dining area, and I told her I had 2 friends and that we wanted a table for 3; to which again, nothing more than, “Si.” Then I mentioned, “We would like to have your paella, would that be possible?” Now paella is not an easy dish. It takes time for the flavors to blend, and it is a labor-intensive meal with all its ingredients, so not all restaurants offer it and when they do they might not have it every day; and if they do, very few actually take the time to properly prepare it. You can find plenty of paella in Spain; but truly great paella is rare.

In response to my request, her eyes looked surreptitiously from left to right, as if checking to make sure she wasn’t heard; then she replied furtively, “Leave 10 pesos a person and come back in an hour.” At this point, I felt as if I had just asked her to reveal highly classified state secrets and I wondered if the restaurant was in fact closed and I was talking to a crazy person who sometimes stayed here; but the prospect of paella won out, so I gave her the 30 pesos and returned to my friends saying, “I’m not sure if we were just taken for a ride, but I had to leave a deposit for the meal.”

We continued to walk around for a while and came back in an hour, as instructed. Sure enough, the lady in the house dress and Dr. Scholl’s greeted us at the door – if you can call a jerk of the head in the direction of our table a greeting.

The restaurant was still completely empty, except for the 3 of us and our hostess. But there was a table at the far end of the dining room, set with glasses, fresh bread, olive oil, and that sublime variety of perfectly seasoned olives, as is customary in Spain. Situated against the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, the table opened up to a dramatic scene of the mountain descending elegantly to the sea. The view alone was already worth the 30 pesos. I was just pleased she remembered we were coming and that we were actually going to have a meal. After taking our drink orders, with as little a word as humanly possible, she retreated, shuffling her Dr. Scholl’s, back to the kitchen.

So as we indulged in the olives and bread, we took in our surroundings a bit more. My friends were delighted that I had not exaggerated in my description of the woman or the condition of the restaurant. Upon further inspection, we saw that outside was a patio that in its day must have been magnificent, complete with a pool, unfilled and disheveled, and sun-faded patio furniture. What’s the story behind the lady of the Dr. Scholl’s? But whenever we got into discussing it, she would return with her inconvenienced expression to refresh our drinks or give us yet more olives.

Finally, she returned carrying an enormous traditional paella pan, stacked high with a mountain of rice and erupting with a bounty of fishes and meats, resembling a never-ending cornucopia. We had ordered paella for 3; this could have fed a hungry family of 8. Not the lightest of fare, either. You do realize this is a rice dish, so the task set before us was a big one.

For once, her face lost its scowl as she lovingly dished out our portions onto our plates, taking great care to give the right proportion of rice, to pork, to chicken, to shellfish, to peas, to tomato, etc. etc. etc. My friends and I looked on with the patience of a starving dog seeing its long-awaited meal. For the first 10 minutes of the meal, not a word was uttered among us, except the occasional “mmmm” and “oh my God.” Then, only when coming up for air, were we able to add, “Have you tasted the clams?” “I can’t believe how tender the pork is.” “And the chicken is so moist.” “Forget the chicken, the mussels are ridiculous.” “And the peppers…”

The flavors of the shellfish blended seamlessly with the tender meats, punctuated by the occasional appearance of peas and peppers; all against the backdrop of the soft, fragrant rice that quietly reflected the mix of flavors while balancing them at the same time; a perfect expression of what paella should be, with every bite different, and yet a variation on the same delicious theme. It was and remains the best paella I have ever had.

Our stern hostess watched and listened with great satisfaction as we demolished the entire over-abundant pan to raves of enthusiasm. And like the Grinch on Christmas morning listening to the Who’s celebration, I think her heart grew a few inches that day. The next time she returned to the table, did I see an upturned mouth, albeit awkward from muscles so unused to holding that position? Did she actually smile when we told her how superb her paella was? Yes, there was a little twinkle in her eye as we asked her for the recipe and there was a lighter step in her shuffle as she went to the kitchen for a piece of paper.

Upon her triumphant return to the table, recipe proudly in hand, she was absolutely congenial as she discussed her finely-honed paella skills. “The rice must drink,” she emphasized more than once as she painstakingly explained the long process of flavoring the rice with the succulent juices of the combined ingredients. And now that she was putty in our hands, we just couldn’t resist… “So, tell us about this place?”

Our newly-socialized hostess began to talk of her father, an immigrant to Spain from Germany, who built the restaurant with his own hands – in the days when restaurants were built with your own hands. She remembered the pool, lively with customers and the dining room full with people eager for her father’s wonderful dishes. We were amazed that the daughter of immigrants would master the art of a local dish and her smile became even broader. After her father died, she kept the business going but the years were weighing upon her and so more and more it was a burden. Her fate and the restaurant’s were indelibly intertwined; as long as she continued, she would keep the restaurant going; as long as the restaurant kept going, she would continue.

We left her restaurant with the fullness and contentment that only a great meal with great company can bring. Our hostess was absolutely warm and glowing as she bid us goodbye. And I can tell you that her paella brought me back more than once to her wonderful restaurant, even on the same trip; each time happily paying my deposit.

And I have sent many a friend to Mijas, of course for its delightful atmosphere, but mostly for the paella. I would tell them that no matter what their course or purpose in Southern Spain, if they were anywhere near Mijas, they should go for the ultimate paella experience. I had friends who were going to Andalucia on a demanding business trip; one filled with bad hotels, pitiful food, and long hours. They had one break in their schedule and made it to Mijas. They saw our hostess and were happy to find that I had not exaggerated in my description of the experience or the sublime perfection of the paella. They sent a postcard in which they depicted my wonderful, reluctant hostess clad in her fabulous house dress accented by her trademark Dr. Scholl’s accoutrement. It was in this postcard that our protagonist was first and so aptly dubbed, “The Goddess of Paella.”

Just writing about her now makes me yearn to go back to her restaurant in the clouds for a taste of her ambrosianic dish; but alas, we lost our goddess to the heavens. The last time I was in Mijas, some years ago, I skipped happily up the stairway, newly renovated and trimmed, much to my surprise. I found the restaurant updated and redecorated with sturdy tables and bright, colorful tablecloths. If not for the preservation of the window overlooking the sea, I would have doubted I was in the right place. I eagerly asked for my wonderful Goddess and her unforgettable paella, wondering if I still had to make a deposit; she’s obviously doing very well. The spruced-up waiter in his crispy white shirt and perfectly ironed black pants informed me that the old woman who owned the place had passed away and that the restaurant was taken over by new management. He assured me that they served paella and that it was prepared authentically and would impress; so we gave it a shot – much to my complete disappointment. The paella was lifeless, with meats that were overcooked and dry; a Spartan array of shellfish; and rice that was thirsty and could not drink. Everybody knows, “the rice must drink.”

I write this blog as an ode to her and all great chefs in the world. Their craft is no less an art form than a great symphony or a master painting and can make for a life-changing experience. Take advantage of them while you can.

Many thanks to Peggy Bernstein, friend, blog follower, fellow Goddess worshipper, and sender of the postcard pictured above, in which she first named our Goddess.

Of Knights and Kings in Storied Segovia

There are some places that just stay with you…

Maybe they don’t come to mind every day, maybe you’ve only been there once, but the mere mention of them will inevitably bring a smile to your face and a wistful yearning to return.

This morning over coffee, my husband and I were discussing places to go this summer. As we were lost in our travel fantasy (or rather, as I was lost in my fantasy; my husband wasn’t really playing along since the coffee hadn’t kicked in yet), I brought up Spain.

Ah, Spain. Just thinking about it brought a thousand-and-one memories to mind, all calling me back: flamenco at the Moreria in Madrid where the dancers surrender to the music like loyal subjects bowing to their lord; the romance of Granada where the Sultan’s palace is enthroned among endless fragrant and exotic gardens; the crammed, winding streets and alleyways of Toledo leading to treasures around every bend; and of course, the wide, elegant avenues of Barcelona marked by the masterful creations of unending architectural revolution. Wherever the road leads in Spain, it strikes at your heart and invades your soul.

So in planning a trip to Spain, or fantasizing about one as I was doing this morning, it is difficult, if not impossible, to imagine a trip that would eliminate any one of the country’s unique and alluring regions. But as I recounted the places I’d like to return to this summer, I found myself saying that I could not return without a visit to Segovia.

Ah, Segovia. Like many of my favorite cities, Segovia is the full embodiment of its great and storied past, starting with a beautifully and impossibly preserved Roman aqueduct, the likes of which cannot be seen in the ruins of Rome, Pompeii, or any other city of the ancient empire’s vast reach. I can still remember the first time I ever heard of an aqueduct in 4th grade history. The teacher made such a big deal about it and I just didn’t get it. ...Until I saw Segovia. Here, the structure soars over the city’s skyline with infinite and measured arches standing as a testament to engineering genius against the never-ending battle of time.

But as time marched on, so did Segovia, destined for even greater things. Once the capital of Spain, the king and queen made their grand residence in the fairytale setting of their castle here. Layered in lore of Spanish conquest, the castle is called the Alcázar for its Arab origins, adding to the myth and splendor of the place. Turreted towers; regal fireplaces; rich and elaborate décor; breathtaking views of the countryside; of course, the throne room; and even an area for a moat; are really all you need in a castle, I find.

And for those who have ever been enthralled by the Knights Templar, either before or after Dan Brown’s popular bestseller, Segovia boasts a completely intact Templar Church. It sits on a hill, ever on guard and ever vigilant of its secrets, with a rare and enigmatic 12-sided structure, and hidden meaning incorporated into every bewitching sculpture, crevice, and carving. Fittingly called the Church of Vera Cruz, or the Holy Cross, it is said that, here, the knights kept vigil over a relic of the true cross brought back from the crusades. Some say, as they are wont to do, that the Templars hid great treasure, still waiting to be claimed from somewhere within the structure's silent walls.

Surrounding this captivating city are the requisite rolling hills, for what fairy tale city doesn’t have rolling hills where knights and princes make their grand entrance? Covered in lush greenery and dotted with the also requisite medieval monastery and abbey; these hills offer the perfect backdrop from any window in the city. Add an imposing and grand Cathedral, the heart of every great city in Spain; and the wealth of local flavors that define its prized cuisine, -- roast suckling pig was perfected here and its preparation takes on the importance of religious ritual -- and Segovia completes the picture.

I have designed trips for friends going to Spain and always recommend including a visit to Segovia. On one such occasion, when my friends returned, many of them said it was their favorite place of the entire trip. One in particular was convinced she had been there before, perhaps in another life; maybe she was even queen. Or maybe, Segovia fulfilled her fantasies of how a fairy tale city should be…

Many thanks to Sue Kelby, fellow lover of Segovia, for her beautiful picture of the Aqueduct.