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September 8, 2024 In Best Of, Roam By Nancy

Procida

I’ve been on a mission to find the perfect fishing village for years. I have this idea in my head—Local Hero in a warmer climate, for those of you who know and love this movie as much as I do. Actual boats, and fishermen, who fish, small village, no hulking 1960s or 70s ugly beach resorts. Interesting landscapes. Delicious food, bonus for freshly caught. I finally found it, right off the coast of Naples—Procida—where we headed after our trip to Ravello and Materea, at the Hotel Santavenere.

Procida is one of the islands off the coast of Naples, along with its better known sisters, Capri and Ischia. At the ferry dock there were hundreds of people in line for the ferry to Capri and Sorrento, but only about ten of us waiting for Procida. We’d mentioned our next destination that morning to the owner of the hotel we were staying at in Naples, the mid-twenties heir of a wealthy, landed family of hoteliers, dressed in an immaculate suit, who was greeting guests eating breakfast on the roof terrace. When he heard Procida his eyes lit up. “It’s like going way back in time, totally different to today,” he said with his eyes looking to the horizon as he thought of a time period adequately remote to make his point. “It’s like going all the way back to the… 1980s.” Gulp. This appreciation for the island was not limited to him. When we told Italians that we were headed there the usual response was “Brava! Not many people know about it and it’s wonderful.” (Our overnight in Naples, and the hotel, warrant their own story, coming soon.)

We learned about Procida from Sebastian, who had explored it when sailing for a week on a friend’s boat. They moored and had lunch on the island and he was enchanted. He was insistent that we go to experience it. He was imagining us renting a little room on a cliff for a month and doing nothing but staring out the window and writing. After seeing it I can imagine this as well.

We landed at the port after a half-hour ferry ride from Naples. The port has a small harbor, ringed by buildings of pastel colors and restaurants along the quai. We weren’t quite sure enough of the busses yet to know we could get where we needed to go—radically underestimating the island’s simple layout—so we got a taxi. We proceeded along the one main road that follows the length of the spine of the tiny island (it’s less than 1.6 square miles), lined by stone buildings that come right up to the street. These roads are impressively narrow, and I live in an Italian village where I frequently have to pull in my side mirrors to fit between two stone walls. I thought I was unflappable. One of Sebastian’s most distinct memories of the island was seeing how scraped up and dented every car on the island was.

Our taxi sped down the one main road, barely one lane in width, and avoided pedestrians, small delivery trucks laden with goods off the ferry, and many electric bicycles with super fat tires, which seems to be the preferred means of transportation over the hills and rough cobblestone roads. Parts of the island looked familiar—it’s the star of the movie Il Postino and also was one of the locations in The Talented Mr. Ripley.

We arrived at our hotel, La Tonnara, on a spit of land between a little marina, an excellent beach, an a pedestrian causeway to a small nature preserve island. It was simple, but very welcoming. Despite a sign in the room warning us not bring our own hotplates to cook meals, and impression that you might have that I love fancy hotels because of the last entry, I loved it. Sweet staff, fantastic location, and immaculate.

Our first evening we wandered along the long beach past some fantastic rock formations and ended up finding a beach-front restaurant that looked promising, Da Girone (no website, linking to Tripadvisor). We are always a bit suspicious of restaurants with views, especially after seeing the logo from this place, but it was amazing. Family run for decades, everything was fresh and delicious. There were long tables filled with Italian families whose kids ran back and forth between the sea, the sand, and the restaurant while all of us watched the sun set over the water. I’d been told that I had to have a salad made from Procida lemons, which are huge, ugly, and with a very thick pith (the bit between the skin and the juicy part). The salad is made of just the pith, raw and cut into chunks, with a little olive oil, garlic, spicy chili pepper, and mint. The first bite was a bit of an act of will, but it was delicious.

Walking back the short distance to our hotel we spotted a very odd-looking bus. It was tall and unbelievably narrow, clearly purpose built for these streets.

We took it the next day to cross the island. The narrow bus was filled with locals who all knew the driver and one another, and gave us hints on where to go. At one point, on the narrow central road, we met an oncoming bus. They obviously had done this before and met where the stone buildings gave a few extra meters of width, and they successfully passed. That feat was nothing compared to a sharp left turn the driver took at speed in this long bus, between two narrow streets, all tightly bordered by stone buildings. Despite the hundreds of scrapes visible on the corners of the buildings, this bus navigated with ease. I was watching the corner nearest me and I swear that we cleared it by about an inch. This bus ride was as close as I will ever come to experiencing Harry Potter’s Night Bus.

Our destination was a small fishing port accessible only on foot or by boat, La Corricella. We walked to it along the cliffs via an old prison and ancient castle perched on a promontory, then descended down steep stone stairs between tightly-packed, colorful buildings. The small marina with a variety of fishing boats and clear water had several restaurants at water’s edge and we had another delicious meal.

That evening we decided to eat at Da Girone again. One of the owners and her husband served us. After a dessert fresh out of the oven that she had just made, I was paying and bought some homemade liquors. Just then an older man entered who turned out to be her father. He was deaf and she had to shout that they were lucky to have had three dogs in the restaurant that evening (one being our Lola), and he beamed. He said that he made all the liquors and then pointed to the label—their logo of a gruff, sea captain sort, scowling—and held it up next to his face as he mimicked the expression. His daughter looked on, beaming.

As idyllic as all this sounds, we weren’t completely relaxed. The day that we arrived in Naples, for our overnight before Procida, the supervolcano that lies under Naples was acting up. Forget the dangers of Vesuvius, the Bay of Naples is the collapsed crater of this volcano, which is considered the most dangerous supervolcano in the world as millions live in the highest risk area. The land in part of Naples is rising two centimeters a MONTH. The night before we got there was a swarm of over 150 earthquakes in a few hours, including a 4.4 magnitude. Schools were closed, prisons evacuated, and thousands slept in the street. Procida forms a part of the rim of the supervolcano. It takes a lot less to fuel my anxiety. (The Washington Post wrote an interesting article on this a few days ago.)

But the lure of a cottage overlooking the fishing port…

And I do have to confess that I have found dreamy fishing villages in another part of the world, Scotland, which I wrote about here.

August 19, 2024 In Best Of, Roam By Nancy

Saunter like Sophia (Loren, that is)

I find it hard to imagine what the Italian coast must have been like in the 1960s. Before the hordes of tourists, bumper to bumper traffic on the Amalfi Coast, and the insufferable Instagram influencers nearly pushing one another off cliffs to get the right shot. I caught a glimpse of a less-traveled coastline when we went to the South for a week in May to cover the newly reopened Hotel Santavenere. I discovered my inner Sophia Loren. The one I had no idea I had inside.

I love finding places that are unusual and relatively unknown, and this trip delivered. We headed to Salerno on a Frecciarossa, Trenitalia’s high-speed rail service, cruising along at nearly 300 kilometers per hour (185 mph). We left around 8 from Tuscany and arrived, nearly 300 miles away, in Naples’ southern neighbor Salerno by 11:30—not bad for a morning’s work. Salerno is very walkable with a nice seafront. We rented a car, explored the town on foot, had lunch at a local place with an array of fish caught that morning displayed on ice, and drove a few miles up the infamous Amalfi Coast road for a night in Ravello. (Travelers hint: Salerno is a great base for the Amalfi Coast. There are frequent ferries that run to Portofino, Amalfi, and Sorrento that are much easier than waiting in traffic on the narrow, twisting main road in high season. It’s also very well-connected to other destinations in Italy by train.)

The ancient village of Ravello (dates from the 5th-century) is famous for being perched high on a cliff, safe from invaders, 1100 feet over the sea. We chose to stay down the hill at water’s level at the Hotel Marmorata. Luckily, they gave us a room with a window looking directly over the coastline and the pounding waves—one of my favorite sounds—which we could hear all night.

There was even a ladder from the pool area right into the sea, but it was too cool and rainy that night to use it.

En route to my assignment we visited the ancient site Paestum. This was a major ancient Greek city on the coast of the Tyrrhenian Sea. Three major temples are in remarkable shape for having been built from 550 to 450 BC. The site is evocative, with the remains of houses and civic buildings, paved roads, city walls and amphitheater, and it wasn’t at all crowded. Often overshadowed by the Roman ruins at Pompeii, Paestum is well worth a visit.

I am lucky to be able to go on the occasional boondoggle to cover a hotel for a travel publication, and this assignment is my favorite to date. Hotel Santavenere was built in the 1950s by an industrialist from Piedmont, Count Stefano Rivetti di Val Cervo. He bought a huge chunk of the Tyrrhenian Coast below the perched, ancient village of Maratea and built a hotel with a mere 34 rooms. The place was recently taken over by one of Italy’s highest-end hotel groups, Egnazia Ospitalita Italiana, who did a complete remodel. It just entered The Leading Hotels of the World group.

I’m not a big mid-century modern person, but this place is gorgeous. The gardens are sprawling and have been well-tended since the resort’s creation seventy years ago (the hotel will provide picnic lunches for those who’d like to eat under the umbrella pines). There are several paths which wind down the steep hill between where the hotel is sited and the Tyrrhenian Sea to a rock outcropping and a small beach arranged with sun loungers. A ladder provides easy access to the sea, which was blissful to swim in. Private dinners can be arranged seaside.

The topography of this area of Italy is beautiful. It’s where the Apennine Mountains, which extend the length of Italy, meet the sea, so plenty of cliffs, ravines, and apparently, caves.

The hotel has so few rooms that the lobby and restaurant take over one whole floor, wrapped by a terrace with stunning views. One of the details I loved the most are the beautiful pink and green tiles, custom made for the place in the 1950s.

Walking through the lobby, on the way to dinner on the terrace overlooking the sea, I did find my walk changing into a saunter when I could so easily imagine the heyday of Italy’s dolce vita years. Sophia would have been perfectly at home. But probably not in my Birkenstocks…see above.

On a mountain top towering over the hotel is one of the largest Christ the Redeemer statues in the world (the biggest being in Rio) that stands 70 feet tall. The road up to the statue was as noteworthy as the destination.

One of the interesting things about reviewing a hotel is that the hotel provides rooms, food, and extras like massages and local tours—but you have to be very well-behaved and there’s no anonymity. We visited the statue, the church at the summit, and the village of Matarea with two guides provided by the hotel and here is where the story of the Count began to show some cracks, although we could only push so hard. According to the hotel the Count was a beneficent guy who came South to help the local population by building wool factories, textiles being his family business in Piedmont, and happened to buy up a huge chunk of coastline. Apparently, this generosity was also helped by huge postwar grants from the Italian government—and when the subsidies ended the factories closed. He commissioned the Christ the Redeemer statue and wanted it to be the tallest in Italy. Near the statue he also “restored” an ancient church, Basilica di San Biagio (built in 1324 on a site used since 732) by gutting, modernizing, and plastering over all the art. It’s now one of the saddest churches I’ve ever been in.

The village of Maratea, five minutes from the hotel, is small and charming with 44 churches, attesting to how dangerous life was for fishermen.

If the names Paestum, the Tyrrhenian Coast, and Maratea don’t ring loud bells in many of your ears it is a good thing. We were driving along roads just as beautiful, and “thrilling” to navigate as the Amalfi Coast but were nearly the only car on the road. Everywhere we went was largely crowd-free.

Living in Italy and traveling widely, I am torn when asked about the best way to visit. Trends I’m reading about, like Bologna being touted as the new Florence, whether Rome or Venice should be avoided, or as I’ve done above, Paestum vs. Pompeii, or this piece of coastline over Amalfi, are not easy discussions. The OGs of travel are flooded with visitors for excellent reasons—they really do represent an apex—and if there’s only one chance to see Italy, should be on the list. (Hopefully not in July and August, when the heat and crowds are making the experience nearly out of the range of human tolerance, no matter how fabulous the backdrops.) However, beyond the top few must-see places, Italy is so richly blessed with scenery, architecture, culture, and food that there are many less-trafficked treasures to discover, where it may just be you and the ghost of a young Sophia Loren. And the two of us will endeavour to share these gems when we are lucky enough to encounter them.

My complete hotel review here.

la dolce vita

August 10, 2024 In Best Of, Roam By Nancy

Here’s how Paris surprised me during the Olympics

I had no idea what Paris would be like during the Olympics and arrived with a mix of anticipation and dread. After a week of watching Olympic events and strolling the streets of Paris, here’s what’s surprised, dazzled, and inspired me about the city and the Games.

Paris has felt quiet.

Where is everybody? This was definitely not the question I was expecting to ask myself during the Games. A friend flew to Paris for the opening ceremony and the plane was so empty that all the economy passengers had the luxury of stretching out flat across the empty seats. Friends are reporting with glee that the hardest to get restaurant reservations are now easy. I am often the only customer in boutiques and stores. Traffic is restricted on some major thoroughfares, like the Boulevard Saint-Germain, where there’s not a private car or bus in sight, which only adds to experiencing Paris in a very different way. Crossing streets that aren’t traffic restricted is suddenly easy. Many shops and restaurants staffed up, and even stayed open during their normal August closures, to serve the Olympic crowds who haven’t materialized, impacting their businesses. But, as a visitor, it is delightful to visit a peaceful and uncrowded Paris with nearly empty sidewalks and plentiful seats on the metro.

August is the traditional vacation month for Paris, which partially explains empty streets, and many additional locals decided to leave town to avoid the potential hassles. More foreign visitors than expected also chose to stay away, to the extent that Delta Airlines is expecting a $100 million revenue loss due to the Paris Olympics, according to the CEO.

Despite these Games, according to the organizers, selling more tickets than any other Olympics, there are still tickets to be purchased for many events. There were 10 million tickets released for the Games ranging in price from €24 ($26; £20) to many hundreds of euros. And then there are the hospitality packages that add transportation, dining, champagne, and a great vantage point, but at a steep price. Want to see the men’s basketball final, which just might include some American superstars, in style? That will be €6,500 ($7,000; £5,500) per ticket for the hospitality package. Organizers have said that the prices are not more expensive than previous Games, but many people feel priced out and the events I have been to have had some empty seats.

The spectacles are truly spectacular.

Paris is doing one of the things that the French do best—spectacles, and they can be impressive to behold. The French have a long history of understanding the power of spectacle. In the summer of 1676, King Louis XIV ordered that hundreds of wildly expensive and exotic white swans—a completely new bird for France—to be imported and released in the Seine. One of the objectives was that visitors traveling by boat between Paris and the Palace of Versailles would pass by the impressive birds and be amazed by the wonder of the French court. It’s a flair that continues to thrive, and the French spirit of spectacle is everywhere during the Games.

At the conclusion of the opening ceremony, the Olympic Torch ended its long relay journey by lighting a giant caldron suspended by a hot air balloon that rose into the night sky. It floats aloft every evening at dusk until 2am, weather permitting, throughout the Games. The interesting thing is that the ring of “fire” in the cauldron is not actual fire but thousands of LED lights and water mist, which took three years to perfect, and looks exactly like the real thing—the first time the Olympic flame is not actually the flame—in the history of the games. The actual Olympic flame is a footnote enshrined near the balloon, in the Tuileries Gardens, where the first manned hot air balloon launched in 1783. I did find the crowds here—tens of thousands of people line the Seine every night hoping to watch the Olympic cauldron rise into the sky. The French guessed that a spectacle like this would be far more impressive and memorable than seeing the actual Olympic torch. And given the excitement on the streets, it’s clear they were right.

This sensibility carries throughout the Games, from the famous (or infamous) opening ceremony to the event venues which were chosen with care for their magnificent settings—fencing in the soaring glass enclosure of the Grand Palais, skateboarding in the Place de la Concorde, equestrian events (I went to one!) in front of the Palace of Versailles, and beach volleyball under the Eiffel Tower, to name a few.

There’s an army of volunteers, and the Army.

There are 45,000 helpful volunteers all over Paris. Every metro stop has a squad of helpers, and each event has hundreds shepherding attendees to and from the venue. They are also present all over Paris in the streets. The easily identified volunteers, wearing bright purple vests, answer questions (in several different languages), hand out water and fans, and generally cheer people on.

The walk from the busses to the equestrian events at Versailles was about a half mile long and lined by enthusiastic volunteers wishing us a good day, playing music, encouraging dancing, and joking with the crowd. Special play areas for kids have been set up all over the city to let children try their hands at different sports. I watched several rounds of tiny fencers, complete with helmets and protective gear with sensors, being instructed by a fencing volunteer about the basics of the sport. Nearby was a three-foot-high basketball hoop, a ping-pong table, and uneven bars over a sea of mats.

France has had a sad history with terrorism, and safety at the Games is being taken very seriously. The presence of police, security, and army is unmissable at the venues and all through the city. Well-armed patrol units of the army are walking through neighborhood streets, making sure all is safe. Security is tight to enter any of the venues with bag checks and metal detectors. I might have imagined that this would feel oppressive, but, for me, it makes the Games feel more secure.

The details matter.

The level of thought and care that has gone into the logistics of the Games is amazing to see. There are event locations all over the city, and it can feel complicated for newcomers to the transport system to get around. Organizers have taken great care that it is easy to find venues. The standard chart of stops over the door of every metro car has been replaced with new ones that indicate the stops for the venues—all in the recognizable shade of Olympic pink used by these games.

Once you exit the metro car there are signs at every turn indicating the way to the place you need to get. I attended a field hockey match at a stadium slightly outside of town, which was a 15-minute walk from the train station through the streets of a suburb with several turns. This could have been complicated if it weren’t for the volunteers and the convenient pink stripe painted in the middle of the street to indicate the way.

If a bus is needed to ferry people from a station to an event that is slightly further away, it is seamless and organized. Even with an event of tens of thousands of people all leaving at the same time there was only a brief wait for a bus and very clear instructions to the busses and their destinations.

And yes, it is green.

I’ve visited many cities that have hulking buildings outside of the center, often moldering and choked with weeds, which were constructed to host prior Olympic events. Paris has gotten mixed reviews for choosing not to install air conditioning in the Olympic Village and providing cardboard beds with inflatable mattresses for the athletes, but hasn’t built any new structures to house the hundreds of different games. They’ve smartly used existing sports facilities, sometimes dramatically repurposing them, like building a temporary pool over a rugby field in a huge stadium to host swimming events. The beautiful equestrian venue was entirely temporary—the portable bleachers will come down at the end of the Games and the field will once again be grass.

It really is the world’s games.

My biggest takeaway from spending a week in Paris during the Olympics is the breathtaking array of nations, events, and languages around every turn. Walking down the street it’s easy to hear dozens of different languages and see fans carrying such a range of flags that it would challenge a geography student to identify them all.

Certain countries are clearly dominating the non-Olympic sport of what fans wear to events. The Dutch can be seen all over Paris wearing bright orange, a color that has been associated with the country since William of Orange led a revolt against the Spanish in the 16^th century. I went to a women’s field hockey event, which happened to be Belgium against Netherlands, an old rivalry. It was great fun to see tens of thousands of people wearing bright orange. A Dutch man told me that they take sports very seriously and will travel far and wide to support their teams.

I’ve loved how good natured and supportive the fans have been at the events I’ve been to, and the dozens of others attended by friends. At a Germany vs. China match, the mostly European crowd was clearly rooting for Germany, which was dominating. But when China made its first goal, the crowd erupted in cheers. The same was true in jumping. No matter what country was up, the crowd was respectfully silent, with collective gasps when a fence went down and cheers for every horse and rider crossing the finish line. My friends who attended some of the bigger events have said that the roar was deafening as the crowd supported athletes across many countries.

This week has felt like a little break from all the divisions in the world, a peek into a place where we are all just humans together, albeit a world in which some are capable of much greater physical feats than mere mortals.

February 25, 2024 In Best Of, Roam By Nancy

Roman Treasures

Rome is slightly over an hour away from us by fast train, but it always feels like an exotic vacation, even on the briefest trips. In the last month I’ve gone for two overnight stays and found some special treasures—perfect after you’ve experienced the heavy-hitters like the Vatican, Forum, Pantheon, and Colosseum.

The Appian Way

The Via Appia Antica is in the running as the oldest paved road in existence. Begun in 312 BC, it was the first of the Roman superhighways created to move troops and materials—in this case 360 miles from Rome via Naples to Brindisi, an important port town where the Romans bumped up against the Greeks, and an intimidating military presence came in handy.

The most well-preserved section of eleven miles runs through the Appia Antica Archaeological Park, the second largest urban park in Europe. You can get there in fifteen minutes by taxi from central Rome. As I walked along the road paved with large basalt stones, still held in place by an early use of limestone cement, and showing wear tracks from cart wheels, it was impossible not to be swept up in history and natural beauty. This place is simply chock full of interesting things—several catacombs; Roman villas; a tomb of the daughter-in-law of ancient Rome’s richest man, converted in the 1300s to a fortified castle; aqueducts; and flocks of sheep. It was clearly the place to make your mark in Roman times.

We walked for about an hour from the Tomb of Caecilia Metella to the Villa of the Quintilii and were surprised by a flock of sheep running across the road in front of us at top speed. Caecilia’s large, round tomb from 30-10 BC was later incorporated into a walled castle in the early 1300s that is now only a shell. It was fascinating to see what it must have looked like—aided by an excellent VR-tour, complete with helmets—which I had to admit I liked despite my initial skepticism.

Unfortunately, due to a ticketing system hiccup, we didn’t get into the Villa Quintilii, but now have something left to explore. The villa is so large that at first the archeologists believed they were finding a whole town, not a single residence.

The walk itself was stunning. It’s the kind of place where we walked past Seneca’s Tomb and didn’t notice because there were so many things to see—realized it only later when looking at a map. Part of what made this adventure so special was that we were off-season so it wasn’t crowded or hot. The light was stunning with the sun low in the sky. Attempting this in high summer when it’s scalding hot would not be fun.

We had lunch at the Hostaria Antica Roma, a quirky place where the chef has recreated several dishes from the first cookbook in existence, written 2,000 years ago. There are also places to rent bicycles—a great way to explore more of the archeological park—which is enormous.

Domus Romane di Palazzo Valentini

Back in Rome, and next to Trajan’s Column is the Domus Romane di Palazzo Valentini. Discovered in 2005, when work was being done on the 16th-century Palazzo Valentini, workers discovered a well-preserved house, street, and part of another house from 400 AD, buried from 16 to 23 feet under the palace. These were homes of the rich and powerful. The tour wanders through the private bathing complex of the house consisting of plunging pools of various temperatures, a swimming pool, reception rooms, and the family’s private staircase—many walls still decorated with polychrome marble and painted frescoes. A street that used to run outside the house, and some rooms from the house next door are clearly visible. You can also see how the foundations for the Palazzo were put right through the Roman floors below.

An earthquake in AD 538, and subsequent fire, seem to have partially destroyed the house. The scarred beams and earthquake cracks in the elaborate mosaic floors remain to tell the story.

Spaces for the tour are limited, so advanced booking is critical. An audio tour, in a range of languages, and projections on the walls of what the villa might have looked like help to bring this site to life. Morning tours are slightly longer and include an up-close look at Trajan’s Column.

Basilica di San Clemente

The ‘modern”church, from the before 1100, at the top layer of the archeological strata.

Almost in the shadow of the Colosseum is the Basilica of Saint Clement. The Basilica one sees today was built just before the year 1100, which is pretty amazing all by itself, but excavations revealed that the current structure was built on top of two older ones: a 4th-century basilica, and a 1st-century Roman home that housed a Mithraic temple, used for secret, early-Christian worship around 200 AD. I felt the layers of time as we climbed steep staircases down and down to the earliest structures, deep underground.

It’s moving to see these structures, still intact with their early-medieval wall paintings, columns and alters—as well as signs of earlier Republic buildings, like the Roman mint and an apartment block, separated by a street that’s clearly visible. At this period, the population of Rome was around 1,000,000 people so urban density was important. There were many five-story apartment buildings and multi-level houses for nobles.

This visit is less-structured than some of the others, and in some ways more intimate. We did book in advance (always critical), but because it was February, I was by myself on the lowest level—otherworldly and magical.

We had dinner at Hostaria Costanza, set into one tiny part of the massive walls of the Pompeo Theater, built in 61 BC. The setting would have been enough by itself, but the food was lovely, and the staff was smart, funny, and attentive. The kind of crew that noticed with amusement that as soon as we walked through the door Lola, our dog, found the location of the kitchen and was staring in that direction with her considerable focus and powers of persuasion.

And don’t forget to visit another of my favorite archeological treasures in Rome, Ostia Antica.

July 4, 2023 In Best Of, Roam By Nancy

Discovering Lake Maggiore

Italy is sinking under the weight of tourists right now, and it’s not even high-season. I am not too affected by crowds living in such an off-the-radar village, but am always on the lookout for places to go in Italy that are uncrowded and spectacular. We just returned from a week stay on Lake Maggiore and I loved its beauty, diversity of places to visit, and some unexpectedly good restaurants. The times I’ve been to Lake Como the crowds—mostly American—along the promenade in the town of Como have been so overwhelming that it has been hard to walk, even in early Spring. The towns that we visited along the north side of Lago Maggiore and Lake Orta were blissfully empty (as of two weeks ago) and filled with fun things to do, even for the two kids we were traveling with. Surprising as this area is just over an hour from Milan.

Lago Maggiore sits between Italy and Switzerland, nestled at the foot of the Alps. It’s the second largest lake in Italy and extremely deep—lower than sea level for most of its bottom. This depth evens out the heat in summer and the cold in winter, creating a semi-tropical microclimate, perfect for lush hillsides and unusual gardens. We went with extended family to the Villa Valentino, one of the few vacation rentals we’ve been to that is even prettier than the pictures, along with an unusually generous and gracious owner—this place is a gem if you are looking for a house for a large gathering. The deck at the front of the villa had the kind of view of the lake and mountains that made it hard to go inside, let alone get in the car to explore. There were thunderstorms nearly every evening and we watched the dramatic clouds, torrential rain, and lightening approach us from the end of the lake for hours.

Our first adventure was to Lago d’Orta, known for having the cleanest lake water in Europe. We headed to the beautiful village of Orta San Giulio, with its narrow stone streets, and found the lakefront piazza where the small wooden ferries docked. Our destination was a tiny island, Isola San Giulio, just offshore, crowned by the Basilica di San Giulio, started in the 5th century. That’s not a typo. For a few euros the wooden boats, ferry being such a strong word for a boat that fits about 10 people, took us across to the island.

From the water, I spotted a restaurant, Ristorante San Giulio, with a deck over the lake where I assumed that the view might make up for mediocre food. Amazingly, they had a table available for eight right at the lake’s edge and we had a delicious lunch with some unexpectedly kind and attentive waiters—in Italian they had referred to the 9 and 11-year olds as bambini, a common way to talk about kids of all ages, and then stopped to apologize and made sure that the kids knew that they weren’t actually calling them babies.

After lunch we visited the basilica, where the “modern” 12th-century church was built over the foundations of the earlier 5th-century building. We then walked the silent path around the island’s perimeter, skirting the Benedictine monastery that has grown up around the basilica. All along the path are signs encouraging silence, enjoyment of the moment, and contemplation.

The next day’s exploration of Lago Maggiore took us to not one island, but two. We drove to Stresa, which is often touted as a “mini Cannes”. We drove to the dock and again found a selection of beautiful, small ferries waiting to take us across the water for just a few euros. I love to be on the water, especially on wooden boats, and could have ridden around on these for the rest of the day. Our first destination was the tiny Isola dei Pescatori, or Island of the Fisherman. It’s inhabited year round by a population of 25. We had lunch in a lovely and sophisticated restaurant, Verbano, on a point with a stone deck draped with jasmine and wisteria with views to the Palazzo Borromeo. It also is an inn with twelve rooms.

After lunch we boarded another ferry to head to Isola Bella, or beautiful island, with its massive Baroque 17th-century palace and gardens created by the powerful Borromeo family. One of the ornate huge rooms has an alcove with a bed that was used for one night in August 1797 by Napoleon and Josephine. The description on the wall echoes complaints from 200 years earlier—how the Napoleon and 60 troops arrived with only one day notice, required special meals, and left the place “dirty and smelly”. Apparently the Empress Josephine was “much more polite than the great hero.”

Others enchanted by these islands include Hemingway, setting the final chapters of A Farewell To Arms here. “I rowed towards Isola Bella and I approached the walls, where the water suddenly became deep and you could see the wall of rock going obliquely down into the water, and then I climbed up towards the Isle of Fishermen where there were boats pulled dry and men mending nets.” This villa was also the setting of a meeting between the United Kingdom, Italy, and France in 1935 forging an agreement, the Stresa Front, to try to stop the advance of Hitler. This agreement fell apart months later when Italy invaded what is now Ethiopia.

An exploration closer to the villa was to an old church perched above a gorge with a rushing river 85 feet below. There’s a small bridge for cars paralleled by a foot bridge perched above the abyss, impossibly built in the 12th century.

But it wasn’t just scenery that we were after. There’s the charming Ristorante Grotto Sant’Anna where cascading terraces filled with thick stone tables are perched along the side of the gorge. We had such a surprisingly good meal here that we returned a second time. From the restaurant there’s an easy trail that heads downhill, following the river, to the beautiful lakeside town of Cannobio. I thought that the topography looked familiar and realized that we were only 13 miles from the stunning gorge we’d found last year in Switzerland on our road trip to England.

This proximity to Switzerland wasn’t just geographical. We found this area intriguing as you can feel the southern Italy versus northern Italy differences. It felt almost more Germanic than Italian, and the predominant nationality of tourists we saw, other than Italians, was German and Swiss, judging by license plates. Italy’s unification in 1861 was so recent that I am constantly intrigued by how distinct the architecture, food, language, and culture are from region to region. It is part of the reason that Italy is never boring.

We didn’t have time to visit the Hermitage of Santa Caterina del Sasso, an 12th century complex perched on a balcony of rock with a sheer cliff dropping to the water, but I will next trip. And there will be a return trip.

April 30, 2023 In Best Of, Roam By Nancy

Just go: Brescia

An unexpected visit to Brescia revealed a delightful town often overshadowed by its neighbors—Venice, Verona, Padua, and Milan—but packed with beauty, history, and great food.

We haven’t even hit May and yet friends are reporting epic crowds in all the usual suspects—Venice, Florence, Rome, Cinque Terre, Amalfi Coast… As special as all of these places are, when you can’t even walk down the Spanish Steps in Rome because there are too many people it takes all the pleasure away, at least to me. One of the joys of living in Italy is the seemingly limitless supply of beautiful and fascinating towns to visit that are still uncrowded—and we accidentally found one last weekend.

John and I are still trying to master the Italian medical system and when a friend suggested we check out a modern clinic in Brescia for some routine doctors’ appointments we decided to make a night of it. I knew almost nothing about Brescia except that it was one of the cities on the front line when Covid arrived in Italy in January 2020. Arriving with no expectations we couldn’t believe what we’d happened upon—a beautiful town filled with architectural gems, a history of diverse cultures, and some great food. Best of all, we heard almost no English and saw almost no tourists despite it being a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Brescia sits at the foot of the Alps, whose snow-covered peaks were visible, and close to Lake Garda and Lake Iseo. Although it is a city of 200,000 and surrounded by industry, the old town is compact and beautiful. We wandered around with no agenda and happened across one beautiful little piazza after another ringed by restaurants and bars serving aperitivi at outdoor tables.

What makes Brescia so fascinating is its layers of history. There are remnants of Bronze Age settlements, later the first part of the city was founded in 1200 BC by either the Etruscans or the Ligures people, then it was inhabited by the Celts, followed by the Romans, then the Visigoths and Attila the Hun, then the Lombards, on to Charlemagne and French rule, then the Venetians…and this only gets us caught up to 1512. These layers play together in intriguing ways.

On old Roman ruin incorporated into an apartment building

The ancient old town is surrounded by palazzos built in the Renaissance. For dinner we decided to go to Veleno, located in one of these palazzos built in the early 1700s. The food was a bit uneven, but the decor was stunning. There is even a Michelin-starred option in town.

Our morning stroll took us up to the castle and its extensive gardens, built on top of the Bronze Age settlement. As one of the largest castles in Italy it dominates the hill that overlooks the town. Then we wandered into a stunning piazza where two cathedrals were jammed next to each other next to a palazzo with a huge bell tower where the city’s offices are housed. The Duomo Vecchio (Old Cathedral) sits snug up against the Duomo Nuovo (New Cathedral), started in 1604. The Duomo Vecchio is a stunning example of a round Romanesque church dating from 1100, but my favorite part was going into the crypt and finding a complete tiny church from 762 with a forest of columns supporting the low ceiling.

At that point we were satiated but decided to push on and go to the Santa Giulia Museum, housed in a monastic complex of Longobard origin. In its 150,000 square feet the museum houses archeological finds from the Bronze Age on. But it’s not just about things in cases—there are two excavated Roman houses, the Longobard basilica of San Salvatore (8th century CE), the Choir of the Nuns (early 16th century) and the Romanesque Oratory of Santa Maria in Solario (12th century), where the nuns kept the monastery treasure, all skillfully incorporated into the museum.

Despite being spacey and hungry we had a reservation at the archeological park which is part of the huge museum complex and we were told by several people that we cannot be late. We go back outside and walked past a large Roman theater to meet our guide in front of the towering Roman Capitolium (73 CE).

Our guide assembled our group of twenty and took us down a staircase into a small room to watch a film for 5 minutes. This isn’t just about information—we were in an airlock where our germs and the humidity and temperature are being controlled before we can go into the next room which is a Roman sanctuary dating back to the early decades of the first century BCE with vibrantly-painted frescoes—some of the best preserved other than at Pompeii.

After we all have our fill we go back up and into the Capitolium where we again entered an airlock before we could see the Winged Victory, a bronze statue from the early years of the first century BCE, high on a pedestal in all her 6 foot 6 glory.

Lunch, a quick wander through a pristine Renaissance piazza, the Piazza della Loggia, the oddly beautiful Piazza della Vittoria, an Italian art-deco piazza created in the late 1920s, then home, exhausted but barely having scratched the surface of things to do.

Brescia is also home to the famous Mille Miglia vintage car race where some of the most rare antique cars in the world leave museums and are driven for 1,000 miles in Italy every year. Brescia and Bergamo are sharing Italy’s “capitals of culture” designation for 2023.

December 11, 2022 In Best Of, Roam By Nancy

A new favorite place: Fife, Scotland

So what were we to do? We had paid for tickets for all of us to convene in Edinburgh to drop Sebastian off at the University of St. Andrews. Four days before we leave everything changes and he is no longer going there. Cancel Scotland? “No way” says Donella, and she is usually always right, especially as we were already headed to London directly after to attend her graduation. Sebastian informs us that he is not going anywhere near St. Andrews. He’d just started bonding with it and making friends online when the last minute shift to Oxford happened and it was all too sudden and fresh to be able to be just a regular sightseer. I had happened upon a just-released Travel+Leisure article touting the wonders of Fife, Scotland, and I unilaterally decided that twelve miles or so outside of St. Andrews did not technically count as “near,” and a truly magical four days started.

The Fife peninsula lies between Edinburgh and St. Andrews, bounded by the North Sea, the Firth of Tay, and the Firth of Forth—say the last aloud and you’ll see that the fun has already started. The terrain is stunning, reminding me a bit of the Pt. Reyes peninsula in California, but with ancient ruins. It also happens to have a terrific food scene, along with villages right out of one of my favorite movies, Local Hero. I was in love. I haven’t been so strongly drawn to a place in years.

I booked us into one of eight tent cabins right on the sea at Catchpenny Lodges. The “tent” part is an exaggeration. Although they have canvas walls, nothing else is particularly tent-like—the floors are wood, there are two bedrooms with comfortable beds and good sheets, a charming sleeping loft, a bathroom with a rainforest shower, a well-outfitted kitchen with a wood-burning stove/oven, and a front deck with a grill and furniture from which to try to catch a glimpse of dolphins, humpback whales, and sea birds. And it’s totally off-grid. The best part was that in the few yards between the porch and the sea is the Fife Coastal Path, a 116-mile stretch of trail right at the edge of the water. We walked for a half hour to the left and climbed around the ruins of the 15th-century Newark Castle. To the right we walked past the ruins of the Lady’s Tower to the too-cute-to-be-true village of Elie where we had just-caught fish and chips.

The food options rivaled almost anywhere I’ve been in freshness, sophistication, and local sourcing—a few talented chefs and farmers moved to Fife during the lockdown from more urban locations and stayed. I didn’t get a whiff of food preciousness or pretensions either, quite the opposite of what sometimes drives me nuts about food in the Bay Area. Our first dinner was in the tiny fishing village of Lower Largo at the Crusoe, which also has a few rooms and is located right on the beach. We had a memorable candlelit dinner in our own tiny, dark-blue wainscoted room, complete with a fireplace in 17-century pub, The Kinneuchar Inn, with a hyper-local menu that changes daily. But one of my favorite food finds was the Andross Farm shop right at the end of the driveway to our tent cabin. The family farm raises grass-fed beef, mutton, lamb, and vegetables and has a lovely store that features their own bounty as well as loads of freshly prepared meals and pastries—perfect for going back to the cabin and cooking. I loved learning the intricacies of cooking on a wood-fired stove and oven.

And way too soon our few days in Fife were over. We were on to London for a couple of days for Donella’s graduation from UCL, then onto Paris to join friends for an overnight trek to Normandy to go to a new restaurant that one of their friends had started. More on that later, including finding one of the most memorable restaurants I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating at.

And no, we never set foot in St. Andrews. But I can’t wait to. This area of the world is calling me back.

December 4, 2022 In Best Of, Roam By Christine Sarkis

“Vacationing” on a barge in France

Mistakes were made–our first was assuming that there would be a grocery store open in the town where we set sail, on a Sunday, late in the afternoon. We arrived at the boat launch on the Canal du Nivernais outside the town of Cuzy full of naive optimism, assuming we’d sail to the next town, find a great restaurant, a tidily stocked market, and a boulangerie for the next morning.

We met our boat, and it seemed … surprisingly long, 48 feet. More surprising still was the fact that the company seemed willing to just turn it over to us. After a quick training from a cheery Dutch guy, we took to the river, learning on the job what it took to pilot it along the narrow canal, under even narrower bridges, and into narrower still locks. Happily, my brother-in-law Nathan ended up being a gifted beginner–turns out his college stint as the president of the tractor club at UC Davis gave him a visceral understanding of massive-but-slow vehicles.

Out on the canal, we were confronted with some realities that didn’t quite line up with the vision of the adventure. First, the stretch of the canal we were on certainly had towns, but nearly all were mostly abandoned, home to maybe a half dozen families and no shops. This is where I mention that we boarded the boat as four adults, four children, one liter of water, one packet of cookies, and one record-breaking heatwave. As we realized that food and water was more than a short sail away, we adjusted our plan. We would:

Pretend the engines were too loud to hear the children when they said they were thirsty.
Go full throttle (3 miles per hour) down the canal, learning how to navigate the locks from the lock keepers as we went.
Try to get as close as possible to the larger town of Clamecy, where there was a rumored single restaurant and grocery store open on Sundays.

As we bumped gingerly into the first lock six miles from Clamecy, the lock keeper shouted instructions, sending the adults scurrying up and down the ladder, throwing ropes, steadying the boat as the water poured out of the lock and we plunged downward. By the time the doors of the lock swung open, we were sweaty and a little stunned–what were we doing here again? Why had anyone thought it was a good idea to entrust our group of total beginners with this massive boat? With each lock, we grew grimier but more confident. By the time the locks closed at 7 o’clock, we smelled like we belonged on the river and had sailed a full two miles. Which math and reality insisted meant we still had four miles to go to get to Clamecy.

The drinking water had run out a mile back, and thirst was all we could talk about, so we moored on a grassy bank, rolled the little rental bikes off the boat, and pedaled along the towpath in the waning light. On the one hand, it was achingly beautiful: the still water, the dense forest on either side, the hum of the cicadas as the day cooled and the breeze stirred. On the other, convincing an 8-year-old to pedal through the thirst turns out to be a hard sell.

But we got to town, found food and drink, and returned back in the dark, following the chalk-white of the path along the canal to find our way back, then fell asleep stargazing on the padded loungers on the roof of the boat.

This cadence–near disaster, physical exhaustion, crisis deflection, and moments of grace–characterized the following days. We swam in the river that parallels the canal (pro tip: don’t swim in canals in France; it’s still legal to flush toilets directly into their waters), we had big dinners and gathered around the outdoor table on the boat. But also, we sustained injuries that may have required stitches (we settled for tight bandaids), pedaled one kid into near-heat exhaustion, and wilted and sweated through the intense heat. And the thing I had anticipated most, the river towns, they were nearly all deserted. Not just shut for summer but simply and sadly … empty.

If I were to do it again–and I’m not sure I would–I would seek a more beaten path, because now I understand that with tourism comes towns that survive, towns with important things like restaurants and places to buy water (even on a Sunday). I’d also choose a smaller boat and arrive fully stocked up on food and water. I’d do more fitness training in advance to prepare for the physical demands of boat life. Finally, I’d skip the hot days of July and opt for a cooler sail on one of the bookends of summer.

As we were driving away after returning the boat, my 10-year-old son Augie looked out the window and said to no one in particular, “Adventures are always an adventure, but it doesn’t mean they always go well.” Word, kid.

October 30, 2022 In Best Of, Roam By Nancy

The devil at the beer garden

My mother was an artist, but her pallet for rebellion was limited. When I was growing up and she was really, really fed up—a fight with my father, or a particularly bad period of ennui—she would always say that if she’d been a different type of woman she’d go and hang out in a beer garden. To her, this was getting out the big gun. She always said this with a bit of wistfulness, but also a tiny edge of fear tinged with her fascination. Like the things that happened in beer gardens were not to be fully imagined as one might be contaminated by going too deeply into one’s inner beer garden. Born in 1920 of very conservative parents, she lived a constrained life, even after she married my father.

You can only imagine the space, both broad and deep, that a beer garden inhabited in my young brain. It’s such an innocuous, innocent sounding word. I’d never seen one, or heard of one outside of my mother’s yearning for rebellion and a taste of what it might mean to be bad. What possible things could happen there that exerted such a fascination to my mother? In a beer garden could you even see through the foliage—did the sun ever shine? Did the plants serve beer? What else could be happening there besides beer that was so wicked? It had been many years since this archetypical den of sin had ever crossed my mind, but earlier this week John and I found ourselves in Bavaria for a shoot and suddenly we were surrounded by beer gardens.

Most were, shockingly to me, merely a fancy name for an outdoor patio where beer was served. No jungle, no woman-eating plants, no scantily-clad servers. Just some picnic tables. What a letdown.

Our last night of the shoot we made it into Munich and went to a beer garden for bratwurst that our client had recommended. The Nuernberger Bratwurst Gloeckl am Dom fit the description of what I’d said that we wanted. Somewhere in the old section that had good local food. It turned out to be very happening, but not at all hip—the beer garden (i.e. outside tables) was packed and people watching was fascinating, and very different from our village, London, or Paris—all of which are pretty damn distinct already. Mainly men, mostly comfortably plump, largely in groups. A few couples on date nights. A man at the next table, who looked like a relative of Einstein, rocked a thick head of pure white hair extending in all directions, its exuberance matched only by his moustache. The table behind us had a group of teenage boys wearing some type of antique military uniforms and one carrying a large flag. A soccer team arrived. A popular dish seemed to be a platter of 150 sausages, all cooked over the inside beech wood fire.

The whole beer garden sat in the square in the shadow of Munich’s cathedral, the Frauenkirche. Haunting as it loomed in the dark—many places in Europe, including our village, are not turning on lights to illuminate monuments due to the energy crisis from the Russian invasion of Ukraine. Doing a little research I discovered that the cathedral is well known for its Devil’s Footprint, a black mark resembling a footprint near the front door, which has several competing theories about what the devil, who clearly was the only entity who could possibly have caused such a mark, was really up to.

But my mother would have known exactly why the devil was hanging out in proximity to the beer garden. I wish that my now self could have told her then self that it would have been a powerfully good thing for her to have hung out in a beer garden. That trying so hard to always be good cut off a part of herself that I think she’d rather have enjoyed and would have given more spice, texture, and fulfillment to her life. That packs of men often just want beer. That we can trust ourselves, make mistakes, and find redemption. And that sometimes that dark shape on a floor tile is maybe just a mark from the kiln rather than proof that the devil lives in a beer garden.

September 30, 2022 In Best Of, Roam By Nancy

Road trip, part II: where did the good times go?

When I left you last on our European road trip we’d headed out of the tunnel from France to England with hearts full of anticipated adventure, fun, and not the least of it, great meals to be had. Turns out that only the first was true, and not in the way we imagined.

Oxford

We headed directly to Oxford—Sebastian was an offer holder—and he wanted us to attend a university-wide open house. The British system is different from the American one. A British university gives a student an offer to attend, most of the time dependent on the grades obtained at the big tests at the end of the academic year. There is no senior year coasting. And the results don’t come out until late summer.

We checked into a hotel that I am still not sure how to rank in my order-obsessed brain. Location? Great. Charm? Pretty darn high, but in an eccentric way. Room size? Smallest I’ve ever stayed in. Historical interest? High. Bathroom? Pretty damn awful. Mildew? Just maybe. Bath Place Hotel is a collection of tiny cottages around a cobbled courtyard, built in the early 1600s by Flemish weavers who were given permission to settle right up against the Oxford city walls. Before the weavers came there was a communal bath house, explaining the odd name.

From the hotel’s courtyard there is a less than arms-width passage between two of the cottages that leads directly into the outside terrace of the Turf Tavern, where Bill Clinton famously did not inhale marijuana while a student. Its foundations date back to 1381 and it was built outside the town walls so that various kinds of illegal activity wouldn’t be under the jurisdiction of the colleges. In addition to Clinton, the Turf has hosted Ernest Hemingway, Steven Hawking, David Bowie, Oscar Wilde, Elizabeth Taylor, Richard Burton, C.S. Lewis, Margaret Thatcher, to name a few, and us. Although now very touristy I was still glad we went as I was toweringly tall when ordering at the bar, barely fitting under the beams. Others, more truly towering (over 5’4″), have to duck.

Just steps further was the heart of Oxford University, where the first courses were taught in 1096. Three of the oldest colleges were built in starting in 1249, so the architecture, as it evolved through the centuries with the creation of more colleges, is varied and truly beautiful. Oxford is made up of 44 colleges, which are usually closed to the public and the best you can do is to catch glimpses of the splendor within through metal gates, manned 24-hours a day by watchful porters who have heard every excuse from people wanting a look around inside. This weekend was special as all the colleges were open and we wandered through a few.

My current favorite of the batch is All Souls, which is a graduate-only academic research institution. Applicants have to take what is informally known as the hardest exam in the world—twelve hours of grueling questions—and those who survive go on to oral examinations. Beyond subject specific exams there are three general essays from a long list, including questions like: Should we bring back woolly mammoths from the dead?; If Margaret Thatcher and Nelson Mandela had died on the same day, whose death should the BBC have reported as its top story?; ‘Taste is first and foremost distaste, disgust and visceral intolerance of the taste of others’ (PIERRE BOURDIEU). Is it?; and Is it ‘colonialist’ for the UK to pressure its former colonies to repeal anti-sodomy laws imposed during the period of British rule?

After all that two students are accepted on a good year, sometimes none. There are usually around a dozen students at All Souls in total. The college is one of the richest at Oxford, with an endowment of £420 million, which students, who are full fellows once accepted, can use for research. This is important because it breaks the usual academic cycle of graduate students having to limit what they research and study to appeal to funding opportunities and academic publishers who determine what might be publishable, to make a career and a living. All Souls provides the money needed to research, study, and write about anything a fellow wants, without restrictions—a pinnacle of academic freedom. T.E. Lawrence was a fellow, and I can imagine him fitting right in.

Graduation and The Plague

We leave Oxford for Sebastian’s graduation from Ardingly College. They have erected a big white tent where a ceremony happens in the morning and a black tie ball in the evening. Covid rates in England at this time were staggeringly high but we were the only ones wearing masks in the audience of 500 or so. As evening approached John and I were faced with a dilemma, all dressed in our finest, was there any way to approach the evening and still take some basic precautions? We debated and realized that the answer was no. Our tablemates had been carefully chosen by Sebastian and his friends so that we could meet their families. There was no way to wear a mask at dinner in this context, and we couldn’t be those people—”Sebastian, are those weirdos in masks your family?” So we went for it, quite the leap for us, who’d huddled under heat lamps all last winter to avoid eating indoors.

Cotswolds adventures

We then went back up to Oxfordshire to meet family from California in the Cotswolds, one of the most beautiful natural areas of England with a higher than usual share of gorgeous villages. The rental I’d chosen, largely by proximity to family, turned out to be located in a nice wooded, rural area, very quiet and secluded except for the six lane freeway separated from us by a thin line of trees. We were basically sleeping on the shoulder. (I will never ignore John’s trick again of looking up addresses of rentals and doing an overhead Google Maps look at where it is actually located.) We drive back into Oxford with family to show them Sebastian’s perhaps future college, punt on the river, and have a picnic. Tempting fate certainly, but probably the only chance they will have to see his college if it works out and he gets in. All adding up to more and more emotional investment in this outcome.

A few years ago I happened upon Hidcote Gardens by myself and when I realized we were staying right nearby I encouraged the family to go, a little nervous that it wouldn’t live up to my memories, or my hype. Fortunately it didn’t let us down. And yes, for you gardeners, it is the home of Hidcote lavender.

Another highlight for us was Chedworth Roman Villa, one of the largest Roman villas in England, dating from its heyday in the 4th century. As with other of the Roman villas I’ve visited I am reminded how elegant and beautiful the life of rich Romans was—putting much of our modern architecture and lifestyle to shame. The idea of having different dining rooms for each seasons to take advantage of the patterns of sun, shadow, and views is inspirational to me, and it was great fun to stand in the footprint of the summer dining room looking out at basically the same view that they had centuries before.

By evening John is not feeling well at all, the first of the three of us to succumb. He tests positive in the morning. Sebastian and I are still testing negative. We are supposed to head to London for a action-packed few days with even more family, but that is clearly off the table. We decide to head back to France to wait it out because if something goes really badly health-wise we want to be out of Britain’s painfully underfunded and understaffed NHS and into the French health system. We pack up the car and head toward the tunnel.

Getting real, fast

It also happens to be results day for Sebastian for the IB exam, which are supposed to be posted at noon. We are driving along on an unseasonably cold day, with all the car windows open, trying to avoid getting John’s germs, in the off chance it makes any difference at this point. John is in the backseat with his head resting on a metal fan while we bounce down the road, all wrapped up to try to stay warm through his fever. I kindly ask whether he’d like the dog blanket to cushion his head, which he refuses saying that the cold metal feels good. Sebastian is next to me hitting refresh on the results site, which isn’t responding due to the large number of students checking, and trying not to let me see what he is doing as he huddles next to the passenger door. As we approach Folkestone I see his face turn pale. His marks were over in every category for his offer except one. We have no idea what this means, but it’s not good news. He met his offer for St. Andrews, but at this point has his heart set on Oxford. The news feels gutting. I could so clearly imagine him there. And I am also surprised by the force of my feelings—what of this reaction is about me, and what is really about him? And feeling bad about feeling bad—having either of these options is an enormous privilege—why are we feeling so strongly that this isn’t the right outcome?

The ride back on the Eurotunnel train is silent as we sit in our car underwater in mood as well as body. We exit in Normandy and head to a little gîte, built in the 1700s, I’d found that was self-contained, allowed a dog, and we could have for a week—one of five available at the last minute in all of France. Our plan is to reunite with the family in the Loire valley at a small chateau we’d all rented after we’d weathered the Covid storm. John heads directly up the tiny ladder-like stairs to bed, Sebastian and I are madly calling his school to get advice. He and I are still negative but feeling worse every day. Finally, I test positive as well. I don’t remember much about this week except a couple of trips into Five Guys burgers because we could order and eat outdoors, away from everyone. And the beautiful color of the drying flax when I could muster the strength to walk to the end of the driveway and look over the fields. (Spoiler alert: It all did work out in the end for Sebastian after his problem exam was regraded, and we’ve just returned from dropping him off. This summer reinforced the idea of not giving up until all roads are followed to their end. And patience, as it wasn’t all resolved until the very end of August.)

John is finally negative, but I am not. Fortunately the chateau for our next leg had a maid’s room with a single bed off the kitchen with its own bathroom, perfect for me, so we all decide to go ahead with the next stage of the vacation, and we are off to the Loire. We make one stop enroute at Jumièges Abbey, a Benedictine monastery that dates back to 654. As with many ruined churches and monasteries in France it reached its end after the French revolution when the grand buildings were raided for their riches, stones, and lead roofs, leaving only impressive ruins behind that only hint at the extravagance that was once there.

The Land of Castles

The Loire valley is the rich heartland of France, filled with chateaus. As John observed, you can drive for hundreds of miles in Italy, which was a much poorer country, and not see a house the size of these—hundreds of rooms, surrounded by beautiful gardens—but here we seemed to see one every few miles.

Our rental chateau, called Chateau Alaire, was a mere speck compared to its neighbors, but charming. We cook a lot, picnic, and take a walk to visit a church dating from the millenium which the local tourist office gave us the key to for the day (hero shot at the top), but mostly I lounge about masked and rest. We are located next to a couple of well-known French villages, Montrésor and Loches, but I keep noticing a very odd thing about the villages we were seeing, that even my niece’s seven year old daughter brought up, is that they are creepy. Immaculate and perfectly restored, but they seem to lack any semblance of life—no cafes, no old people standing out on the street and talking, no lights on in houses at night, not a single small, tempting bakery or restaurant. Although it’s the height of summer it felt as though everyone had left but us. A sign of too many second home owners sucking the life out of little towns. And yet there we were, searching for lunch, sleeping in a rented out second home. I started to yearn for our thriving, quirky, and very alive village in Italy.

The adventure that didn’t happen

The next leg of our planned journey was the biggest part of the adventure—three nights on a barge on a canal in Burgundy. Something I’d been curious about doing for years. I’m still not testing negative and as we’d be in such tight quarters, 12 of us on the boat, we decide to head back to Italy and forgo this particular adventure. And it sounds like it was a stroke of luck, especially as one of the intense heat waves that hit France this summer was gearing up for another strike. Christine Sarkis, my niece and travel entrepreneur, writer, and editor, who was on the barge, wrote about it for Itch, which I will share in a separate post.

As we start the long trek home it’s apparent that this “vacation” profoundly reinforced that nothing can truly be counted on—not health, weather, conditional admissions, or good times that we assume will happen as we plan ahead. Although always true—and the more at peace I am with this the happier I become—it’s an aspirational state for me and it’s of maximum importance to strengthen those muscles now. Grab the moments that delight you and hug them tight and try to let the rest go. And don’t forget to breathe.

Resources:

— Our cottage in Normandy, at Gîtes Normands de charme les châtaigniers, known to us as the Plague House, was one of five cottages a rural and beautiful property, watched over by an old horse. Ten kilometers from the sea and a couple of lovely towns. Reviewers said that some of the cottages were pretty unbelievably tiny, but ours, the section on the right of this photo, was small but manageable and had some lovely architectural touches.

— Beaune, France might be a bit overrun with tourists, but it at the heart of Burgundy and has a delightful Saturday market. There’s also one of the most stunning kitchenware stores I’ve ever seen, The Cook’s Atelier, run by an American woman, her daughter, and her son-in-law. Sets of antique cleavers, copper pots, and the like. They also run a cooking school and have cookbook we really like which is orderable from overseas. We’ve stayed in both the Najeti Hôtel de la Poste and the Hotel Remparts, both were lovely and located in the middle of things.

— Somewhere outside of Turin… When driving from France to Italy the Turin area is a convenient place to stop. We found this aged beauty, the Sina Villa Mathilde, and enjoyed it. John pointed out that it reminded him a bit of business trips to India. A kind of faded colonial glory surrounded, right up to the property walls, by not the most pleasant urban sprawl, but once you are in the walls and the hotel’s large garden it’s a different world. Not bad food either.