Time in Ruins

There is nothing like visiting ancient ruins that seem to have no bearing whatsoever in your life, and then finding something there that is so mundane, so universally normal, that in one instant the past is connected to the present. A carving, a word, a coin, a fragment, becomes a moment of shared experience. It is a form of communication that is eternal and it is what brings ancient sites alive.

Malta is practically littered with ruins. In fact, there are so many, and surprisingly, they are so rarely visited, that in the same day, we saw the same custodian three different times at three different sites. I asked him if he knew where we’d be later that evening because he seemed to psychically predict our every move.

As I mentioned in my previous blog, some of these ancient sites predate Stonehenge by millennia, and have a range of appeal from the oldest, to the ones that overlook the sea, to the ones with the most artifacts. Many of them are so wonderfully preserved, they still have standing arches, shrines that still await the faithful, and pathways that are worn with the footsteps of countless unknown people. But what stopped me in my tracks were those small touches, those moments when I came to an understanding of the people who inhabited these mystical places: beautiful and intricate decorative carvings and statues that like most ancient artwork, depict figures in positions and behaviors that are quintessentially human.

Everyone who knows me well, knows that I appreciate a good rest. The Beatles “I’m only sleeping” is a personal mantra and I think, a strong statement to live by. So imagine my surprise and overwhelming satisfaction when I found that the most famous statue from the ancient people of Malta was the figure of a sleeping woman. So touching in her simplicity, she is immortalized in that state that I love best. She’s just a small statuette, dating from 3600 – 2500 BC, almost post-modern in her stylized, curvaceous form, and she is surrounded by mystery. What exactly does she depict? Was she an actual person of note or just a simple representation? She lies on her side, a smile on her face, in restful slumber forever. But whether she was a noblewoman or just a regular person; whether depicting sleep or a metaphor of deeper meaning; for me, she acts as a connection with the distant past, bringing with her the age old knowledge that no matter who you are or what your hopes, dreams, or trials; a good sleep will always rank among the world’s greatest and most restorative pleasures. If I were to be immortalized, that is probably the state that would best represent me.

How would you be remembered?

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For a glimpse of the Sleeping Lady, log onto: http://www.heritagemalta.org/museums/museums.html and select the National Museum of Archaeology. Just above the title, you’ll see an icon of a vase. When you click on it, it will bring you to the museum’s collections, and the first one of all, is my “Sleeping Lady”.

For more information on Malta's ancient sites, you can log onto: www.visitmalta.com.

My absolute favorites were:

The Hypogeum, an underground temple and burial site that is beautifully preserved and maintained;

Mnajdra, which overlooks the sea;

The Tarxien Temples, which have the best preserved carvings and artwork.

If you’d like more information on Malta, just post a question or comment. And stay tuned for more blogs on new destinations …

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, Part II

So where did I leave off? Oh yes, my then fiancé, now happily-married-to-me husband, and I were going to be married and we had decided to be married in Sicily. Ah, my Sicily. Of course, we chose the idyllic Erice as our setting, with its lofty towers and imposing walls of white stone glistening in the sun. The reception had to be at the Elimo…

I contacted the magical restaurant and secured the date, but this wasn’t going to be a typical wedding plan. Being so far away, we could only reserve the space. There was no talk of a tasting menu as Chef Tilotta only works with the freshest ingredients, so I was told to come on by when I arrived in Sicily and all would be settled. The fact that this would be just days before the wedding did not seem to alarm them. Me? A little bit; but with so much else to coordinate on two different shores, I let this one slide.

Months passed and I was sitting with my husband discussing wedding particulars. “Are you worried about the reception?” he asked. “We haven’t even given them a deposit. Who’s to say they’re still holding the date?” Sufficiently alarmed, I wrote to Chef Tilotta to confirm, (politely adding that we’d LOVE to know some of his thoughts on the menu). But, if an e-mail can embody a physical gesture, this one was a deliberate roll of the eyes. “We have the date. Just come to the restaurant when you get here,” was all he wrote.

Only three days to go until the big day, and we still didn’t know our menu. As instructed, my husband and I dutifully made our way to Erice to meet with Chef Tilotta, who greeted me with the affection and patronage of a father welcoming his own daughter. As we sat in the crammed room by the piano, he went over his notes on the menu, and his plan was music to my ears...

The Wedding day -- My husband and I got to the Elimo before our guests, and Chef Tilotta greeted us with open arms, then quickly ushered us on a tour of the premises to proudly show off his work. Much to our surprise and delight, he hadn’t just reserved the room with the view over the rooftops that we’d requested, but the entire first floor space of the hotel, including two large banquet halls, and the breathtaking garden courtyard with terraces overlooking the sea.

He had thoughtfully considered the arrival of our guests after the long and tedious drive up the never-ending mountain, so he’d set up a welcoming refreshment table with mixed antipasti and chilled wine in the garden where guests could take advantage of the fresh air, enjoy the views of the city, and relax before the ceremony. The garden was bathed in the late afternoon sun, and the perfectly chilled wines sat like luscious fruits promising to end your thirst. We couldn’t stop to enjoy, though, because Chef Tilotta was quickly moving on to the other rooms, showing us the round tables set up in the dining room with luxuriously decorated table linens in a rich brocade, and of course, that stunning view of the rooftops descending to the sea below.

On to the dance hall, lined with tables overflowing with cookies of every conceivable type, where I lingered for just a moment to take it in. Noting my hesitation, Chef Tilotta stopped his excited rambling to tell me to try a cookie; and like any of my Sicilian relatives, he would absolutely not take no for an answer, holding the cookie to my mouth as if his very life depended on my having a bite. Satisfied only after seeing my eyes pop at the almond explosion on my tongue, he continued to the kitchen where he hand-fed us spoonful after spoonful of each of the dishes with the enthusiasm of a child who wants to show you his newest, most spectacular toys; all deliciously tantalizing samples of what was to come.

Our guests began to arrive, and as Chef Tilotta had guessed, they were tired after the long drive, and delighted by the bounty and the beautiful surroundings. My husband and I went to our room to get ready, and then on to the whirlwind of the wedding ceremony and off to the scenic overlooks of Erice to take pictures against the fairytale background of the white stone walls over the Mediterranean.

Finally we returned to the Elimo, when the true extent of Chef Tilotta’s genius was revealed. As we sat, lavishing in the enchantment of that room, he brought course after course, each one a pinnacle of Sicilian cuisine, and each one surpassing the one before. As do all great Chefs, he presented twists and turns on Sicilian standards, with surprisingly new and inventive pairings, perfectly balanced tastes and forms, and of course dazzlingly alluring platings. From beginning to end, he held us spellbound: Sicilian pancetta in a balsamic reduction, with pineapple – a very unusual yet perfect pairing; followed by a shrimp terrine with saffron, fennel, herbs and Tabasco, each bite with just a hint of fennel followed by a touch of heat, all married perfectly in the broth, just begging for you to dip in the toast points to get every drop.

The risotto was one of the most unique I’ve ever had. Delicately molded into an elegant cylinder, and painstakingly encircled with the subtlest wrapping of infinitesimally thin slices of eggplant -- oh what Sicilians can do with eggplant -- and then covered with the lightest sprinkling of breadcrumbs seasoned with cinnamon. The eggplant was perfectly softened in texture and flavor, balancing the richness of the rice, while the breadcrumbs and cinnamon added an entirely new dimension, with little crunch surprises and a sweetness that made the dish seductively exotic.

Of course, the next course would be fish. We are in Sicily; there has to be fish. He served scorpion fish, one I had never heard of, but my husband recognized it and explained that scorpion fish is not generally eaten in the U.S. because it is small and its spines are poisonous. We Americans don’t know what we’re missing. Light and tender, the scorpion fish was presented in a blood orange sauce, its juice rich and pungently sweet yet at the same time, tart against the softness of the fish. To top it off, he added a garnish of fresh blood orange and watermelon. Not only was the addition of the fruit visually stunning, but when you took a bite of it, your mouth came alive with freshness. For the true fish lovers among our guests, this was the piece de la resistance. My brothers and his son, two who aptly fit this description, couldn’t speak for the entirety of the course. They were too busy eating to notice the rest of the world, as they hungrily scavenged that last bit of flesh from the bone.

After a meal like this, what kind of dessert could even come close to satisfying you? Leave it to Chef Tilotta, who served a simple lemon gelato in a hardened shell and watermelon sorbet; sweet, light, simple and refreshing after a full meal on a hot summer’s day.

But wait a minute, what about the wedding cake? Not an Italian custom, I had explained to Chef Tilotta on the day he planned the menu that we would need a cake, so I asked if he could do that instead. Instead? Absolutely not. In addition to. And so he added a Cassata Siciliana, a customary Sicilian cheesecake with everything but the kitchen sink thrown in.

My husband and I were, I think, the rudest of hosts as we went from plate to plate, raving about the meal, but we hadn’t tasted any of it before this day, and so each course was a gift from our extraordinary Chef. In fact, I was so delighted with the meal, that I requested that Chef Tilotta come and greet our enraptured guests; but the wait staff returned saying he would not come out of the kitchen. It took the bride herself to finally drag him out, for no Italian can refuse a request from the bride on her wedding day. He shyly followed me into the banquet hall as I presented him to our guests, and the room erupted with applause. I think he stayed for 15 seconds before scurrying back to the shelter of his kitchen.

It was at this point that my brother, a great culinary appassionato, recognized him. He told me he had seen Chef Tilotta before, on television, and that he was indeed a celebrity among the great chefs of Italy.

The dinner stands out as one of the best decisions my husband and I could have made for our day. The day ended in a blur as we danced like savages for the rest of the night, way past the designated time of the reservation, with my family pulling the wait staff onto the dance floor to join in the celebration. We were so full, very few of our guests had taken advantage of the bounty of cookies surrounding the dance floor.

At the end of the evening, Chef Tilotta brought my new husband and me into his office, letting us know that we could have the place until closing. He presented us with the bill, and there were no surprises, no additional fees for all the extras. He charged us what he had promised in the original e-mail; the e-mail that seemed so unlikely, so unsure, and so unbelievable. But in addition to the great gift of his genius, he presented us with another wedding gift, an aged and celebrated bottle of Sicilian wine to remember our Sicilian wedding. The bottle was a full magnum, and the year, one of Sicily’s best. I am tearing up as I write this, remembering the solemn and affectionate look in his eye as he made this sincere and generous gift. Remember, in Sicily, you’re either a stranger or family. We were family.

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.