From our plane window at 30,000 feet, the Matterhorn looked
just like the one at Disneyland only bigger.
Early autumn snows lay on the Swiss and Italian Alps as we flew into
Italy. The apple orchards of the northern Italian hills were ripening, grapes
in the fertile river valleys had been harvested, and nights in the craggy Dolomites
were brisk. My husband and I were ready for a month-long trip of slow travel. Celebrating 26 years of marriage and as many
years of traveling together, we looked forward to losing ourselves on the back
roads of Italy.
In our home state of Florida, autumn meant college football
and Major League baseball fever. As avid Tampa Bay Rays fans we left with a
twinge of regret to miss the last weeks of the baseball season. We had weathered a roller coaster of a 2011 season
with moments of hope and dreams of glory followed by frustrating losses and
setbacks. As we flew over Lake Como into
Milan’s Malpensa airport, the Rays were an unlikely candidate for making the
playoffs. They needed to win almost all
remaining nine games and the on-fire Boston Red Sox would have to lose most of
theirs, a doubtful prospect.
We drove a drowsy, jetlagged two hours to Lake Garda. We
ate dinner sitting under an olive tree at Osteria Saporedi Vino snugged along a
cobblestone lane in small lakeside resort village of Desenzano del Garda. The
evening was mild and the sky was clear. We sat watching stars appear in the
early evening sky while enjoying a delicate veal and mushroom stew, tortelli de zucca con burro e salvia (pumpkin
tortellini with a butter and sage sauce), and perfectly grilled vegetables.
Battling
fatigue and sipping the house red wine, I checked Twitter on my blackberry to
find the Rays had lost the first game of a double header to the New York
Yankees and were well on their way to losing the second. I sighed into a second glass of wine and
turned my attention to watching happy Italians enjoy their passaggiata (evening stroll) through the narrow cobblestone
streets and intimate piazzas of the picturesque town. We joined them in search of gelati, leaving
behind thoughts of baseball for the night.
The next morning we headed north into the Italian
Dolomites. Under a robin’s egg blue sky, we sped along the western edge of Lake
Garda through well-engineered tunnels and winding two-lane roads clinging to
the side of the mountains. We entered a broad river valley dotted with ripening
apple orchards, terraced groves of lemon trees, and pastures going green to
golden. Gray-mantled black Jackdaws and sturdy,
shaggy horses kept us company as we ate a lunch of cheese, salami and fresh
bread along the side of the road.
As we
climbed into the limestone tipped Dolomites, we stopped to watch hundreds of
hang-gliders circle like multi-colored buzzards on thermals above the forested
Val de Fassa. Milky glacial rivers streamed down through dense forest from the
craggy mountain peaks. As we headed up into those craggy peaks, we maneuvered a
seemingly endless series of switchbacks leading up to Pordoi Pass. After fifty
turns, I stopped counting. This was our
first lesson in the questionable reliability of Italian road maps, what looked
to be ten hairpin turns turned out to be nearly countless.
At 7,346 feet, Pordoi Pass is the highest surfaced
road in the Dolomites. There were piles of snow on the ground from an early
season snow storm a few days earlier. From
the parking lot a gondola took sightseers and Para gliders up to further
heights. We opted for a late lunch in
the cafeteria and a quick visit to the bathroom which had one of most
spectacular views in Italy from the water closet. Feeling a little weary and facing yet more
winding roads we pushed on to our destination for the night, the little hamlet
of Lateis in Sauris.
We were headed to Sauris for our anniversary night. We had read about the village famed for its
Prosciutto di Sauris, a savory smoked ham and about Auberge Pa’Khraizar, a
romantic chalet-styled inn located in the hills above Lake Sauris. What we had not counted on was just how
remote the village was and just how unreliable our GPS system would be in
finding our way through a labyrinth of switchbacks, tunnels , and roads that
sometimes turned out to be gravel. Our cell phone service was sporadic at best.
Even if we got a phone signal, I knew
from emails that the owner of Pa’Khraizar knew no English and we knew virtually
no Italian. We had no choice but to
continue on in the direction we believed to be Sauris and hope that we would
reach the village before complete darkness.
Much like the Rays in their battles with the New York Yankees we were
struggling with unexpected setbacks and unfulfilled expectations. We thought our day’s journey would be scenic,
leisurely and short. It was scenic. It did not end up leisurely or short.
Just after the sun set over the western Dolomites we
had traversed earlier in the day, we came upon a highway sign with an arrow
pointing to “Sauris”. More accurately,
it pointed to yet another set of switchbacks leading steeply up a rocky
mountainside. With dusk falling rapidly,
we turned left into the first of several hairpin turns, tired but now confident
we would be eating our anniversary dinner at Pa’kraizar and not out of a picnic
basket in the dark on the side of the road. We arrive 20 minutes later at the
front door of the chalet with stone walls and dark honey wood clapboard on the
second floor. Blue and white mountain
wild flowers decorated wrought-iron wall sconces. The night air was crisp and cold. The village was silent. Auberge owner and
chef Lucia met us at the door followed quickly by CiCi, an inquisitive and
yappy Yorkshire terrier. We were home for the night.
We ate a quiet
anniversary dinner of local specialties seated in a cozy honey-colored,
pine-paneled dining room warmed by candles, red chair covers and table cloths
decorated with images of ripe cherries. The menu included the famous boar sausage of
Sauris, duck stew with parpadelle,
bread gnocetti with speck in a cream
sauce, potatoes (cubed and fried), and fresh local mushrooms. We were the only ones having dinner
that evening as we were visiting mid-week at the end of the season. Sipping a grappa
dulce made from local woodland raspberries, we relaxed back into the
comfortable chairs and let go of the days anxious dashing across the Dolomites.
We had survived a schizophrenic GPS
system, hundreds of curlicue turns, and our less than stellar ability to judge
time and distance. We had not killed each other in the process. Lessons
learned. There was wine to be drunk and a down comforter calling our names.
As I turned
back the rich red comforter and climbed into a blessedly comfortable bed, thousands
of miles across the Atlantic Ocean, the Rays were getting ready to face the New
York Yankees in the fourth of a four game series in which the Rays had lost the
first three games. Like us they faced
unexpected twists and turns of fate and doubts as to whether they would
actually go the distance. As we lay down
listening to the quiet through the open window with which let in the clean mountain
air, the Rays were warming up, getting ready to face a roaring New York Yankee
stadium for what would end up being a pivotal game.
We woke the next morning to a misty, stillness broken by
the sound of the neighbor’s industrious rooster at five a.m. and the town bells
at seven a.m. Soon, morning birds starting
chirping in the pine outside the open window.
Welcoming the new day, I sat at the open window watching the mist swirl
obscuring views of the nearby lake. I turned on my cellphone to check Twitter
and the outcome of the Rays game. Before
a crowd of 47,000 New Yorkers, the Rays had decisively beaten the New York
Yankees by a score of 15-8.
Warm morning sun poured through the pine-sashed
windows in the dining room at Pa’Khraizar.
Good Italian coffee, flaky raspberry jam turnovers, and the famed
Prosciutto d’Sauris made up our breakfast. We lingered over coffee plotting the
day’s route. Had the prosciutto and
chalet been worth the previous day’s arduous trek through the Italian Alps? Yes, absolutely, especially when we
considered the red down comforter, charming and talented Lucia, CiCi the pesky
Yorkie, morning bells, and the peaceful, quiet of the village. We had also managed to battle the GPS and
Italian road signage, get good and lost, and still arrive in Sauris happy to be
celebrating over twenty-five years of marriage. We were ready for what Italy had in store.
The mist on
Lake Sauris lifted and the sun came out as we drove back down the switchbacks
leading down to the main road. The sun
revealed a small, turquoise lake of glacial waters surrounded on all sides with
dark, pine forests running to the lake edge. We turned east and headed downhill
to the agriculturally rich valleys of the Friuli-Venezia Giulia Region of
northeastern Italy. We traveled through
tunnels and along narrow highways clinging to the sides of small, deep mountain
valleys. One tunnel was over a mile
long, snaking downhill in a series of turns.
It was unlined with just bare rock walls and cobblestone for pavement.
We half expected to see Snow White’s Seven Dwarfs whistling off to work.
We reached the wide, gentle terrain of the Friuli
region and headed south on a much appreciated, well paved, straight autostrada. We stopped in Udine, the historic capital of Friuli.
We visited the brick Duomo and sat in the sun at the Piazza della Liberta with
its clock tower modeled on the one that stands watch over St Mark’s Plaza in
Venice. We stopped at a store stuffed
with Betty Boop, Laurel and Hardy, Donald Duck, and Popeye figures of all
sizes. This was the first of many such
stores we would see in Italy. The Italians have an inexplicable fascination
with Betty Boop. Once we had worked up an appetite, we lunched
at Al Vecchio Stallo, a restaurant located in a former post station stable
serving traditional dishes of Friuli. We drank the first of many Friuli white wines
and enjoyed a steaming bowl of bread dumpling soup with fresh Italian bread.
After lunch, our thoughts turned to napping. So we
drove east to Cividale del Friuli where we had booked a room for three nights
at La Cjase dai Toscans, a small B&B in the heart of the ancient walled town
located on the banks of the Natisone River. But before we napped, we got lost and did
battle once again with the flighty GPS system.
We entered Cividale, a rabbit warren of narrow streets and bewildering
street signs. Our GPS was as confused as we were. We soon found ourselves
driving down a narrow stone street that was remarkably empty of cars. So empty
that it slowly began to dawn on us that the street might not be meant for cars
any longer. Fortunately it was lunch time when all Italians are either eating
or napping and we were able to find our way to the front door of the 15th
century house we would call home for three days. Our host was astonished to
find us parked outside his front door on what turned out to be the main
pedestrianized street in Cividale.
La Cjase dai Toscans is a fifteenth century house that
has been renovated for use as an inn. Our room had dark, parquet wood floors,
high beamed ceilings, floor to ceiling French doors leading to skinny
wrought-ironed balconies, a crystal chandelier that shed astonishingly little
light, and large armoires in place of closets. We sank into the comfortable bed
in search of a restful nap, only to find that the bells of the local Duomo,
located a short distance away, chimed every half hour, all day long, all night
long. Romantic? Yes. Restful? Not so much.
But a full stomach and a bottle of wine have a way of turning down the
volume and we quickly slept deeply.
The next few days were filled with long, slow rambles
around the town visiting the well-known and much-loved weekend market that
spills along Corso Giuseppi Mazzini
through the Piazza del Duomo and
across the Porte del Diavolo (Devil’s
Gate Bridge). We ate well, sampling
local dishes like Frico (a fried
cheese), San Daniele Prosciutto, and gubano
(a swirled cake). We took leisurely
drives through vineyards famed for their pinot grigio and prosecco. We napped
often and deeply. Every evening we joined the passaggiata and walked the streets of Cividale ending up at the
Piazza Paolo Diacano where we would sit eating gelati or sipping a merry glass
of Campari Orange.
During our three days in Cividale, the Tampa Bay Rays
were finding their way through their own maze of dead ends and wrong
turns. Each morning I would wake at seven
a.m. with the tolling of the Duomo’s morning bells. I’d reach for my phone and
click onto Twitter to find out from my “tweeps” the story of the previous
night’s game. Just as we were figuring
out the ins and outs of our Italian road map and the idiosyncrasies of our
crazy GPS, the Rays were pulling it together, performing as a team, and finding
their way. They were winning. They were winning big. They were aiming for the playoffs after all.
From Cividale del Friuli , we headed to the port city
of Trieste to meet friends for a couple of nights. We stayed in the Savoia
Excelsior Palace Hotel with an expansive view of the Adriatic Sea and the
historic port of Trieste. We spent
several days walking in the footsteps of James Joyce along the Grand Canal, we
climbed the hill to the Castello de San Giusto and the Cathedral, and sat in
fading sunlight enjoying drinks with friends in a canal-side café. We ate
seafood in abundance and drank heavily of Trieste’s famous Illy espresso. Life
was easy. Life was good. The Rays kept winning.
On September 28th, we woke to a sunny
autumn day in Trieste. Sipping a coffee, I stood on our balcony leaning on the
white balustrade and watched the sun rise over the Adriatic Sea. It was a
bright and confident sun. We were headed south that day to stay on an agriculturismo in the Po River
Valley. It was also the day of Game 162,
the last game of the regular season.
Standing on the balcony admiring the sun over the sea,
I realized that the tiny glimmer of hope we left with back on September 21st,
the hope that the Rays would win and the Red Sox would lose, the hope that the
Rays would unbelievably make the playoffs, that hope was now almost as bright
as the sun that rose that morning over the Adriatic. The coming night would bring Game 162. That
game would decide it all.
We drove south from Trieste on the autostrada through the developed Veneto
region to the expansive agricultural Po River Valley. We passed the outskirts of Venice and entered the
flat lands of the delta where agriculture, lagoons, and wildlife dominate.
Our destination for four days was Le Occare, a Bed
& Breakfast on a sixty-eight acre farm, which has been in the same family
for three generations. Once a hemp and tobacco farm it now boasts acres of nut
trees tended as much for the truffles that grow within their roots as for the
bounty of nuts that fall from their branches. The owners, Cris and Giovanni,
also grow vegetables, herbs, and berries in a kitchen garden, apples, corn, and
soybean, and make honey from their own bees. Le Occare provides charming and
comfortable rooms for guests, deliciously prepared meals (breakfast and
dinner), relaxing common areas, trails for strolling and birding, good advice
on places to visit, and a warm welcome to all guests.
The two-story ancestral stone farmhouse at Le Occare is
covered by vines and surrounded by pomegranate bushes, pine and nut trees. It
is home to an adorable bunch of truffle hunting hounds that are more than happy
to go for a walk with you or sit by your side enjoying a quiet afternoon in the
garden. My favorite dog was insistent on ‘helping’ me write in my journal in
exchange for ear rubs.
The farmhouse had cool, stone floors, thick walls, heavy
doors, warm colored walls, floor to ceiling book shelves topped with a
collection of old stoneware pots, and a huge welcoming kitchen where all the
magic happens. One of the reasons we chose Le Occare was for the food and Cristina
did not disappoint. Cristina is a soft-spoken, petite woman with curly red
hair. She has a very gentle manner but has
a very firm hand in the kitchen. She is an excellent chef relying solely on
products produced in the region or on their farm. We stayed 4 nights and ate
every breakfast and dinner in the dining room of Le Occare.
When we arrived at Le Occare, we went for walk with
the dogs in the forest of truffle trees, took a short nap, and then settled
down to a spectacular dinner served on old family china and linens. We had Cristina’s risotto, fresh baked bread
rolls traditional to the region, fresh late season vegetables from the garden
and wine—lots of wine.
A big dinner with
wine after a long days drive did not bode well for staying up to follow the
Rays-Yankees game in the middle of the Italian night. But this was Game
162. This was either the final game of
the season or the E-ticket ride into the playoffs. It didn’t matter that the game wouldn’t start
until 1 a.m. in Italy. I would be there. I would watch it with my friends, via
Twitter.
I hadn’t figured out Le Occare’s wi-fi connection, so
I used my Blackberry and followed the game with my St Pete tweeps who as
expected were lively, informative and passionate. The Rays struggled. David Price, one of their star pitchers was
having a tough game. The Yankees were getting runs, the Rays were not. After three
innings of “watching” David Price struggle and no score for the Rays, the need
for sleep overwhelmed me and I reluctantly shut down twitter. I would catch the
dismal postmortem in the morning…with coffee.
Just before 4 a.m. I woke up for a wander to the bathroom.
I thought, “I should check the final score”. I figured the game and the Rays season
was over. I got up and took a look at my twitter timeline. The game,
surprisingly, was still on with a score of Yankees 7, Rays 3 in the 8th
inning. Groggily, I figured the Rays
were still on their way to losing. I
headed off to the bathroom. A few
minutes later on my way back to bed in the darkened room, my twitter stream
literally exploded in my hand as my Blackberry practically screamed “HOME RUN”.
The Rays talented third-baseman Evan Longoria had hit a 3-run homerun and the
score was now 7-6. I stood in the middle of a dark room in my thin cotton
nightgown with bare feet on a cold stone floor saying to myself, “well, I can’t go back to sleep now”.
I sat on the edge of the rocker in the corner of the
room, shivering in my nightie, to see what would happen next. I clicked between the MLB.com mobile website
and my Twitter friends. I held my breath. It was the ninth inning. The Rays were up to bat. Out 1, Out 2. They were
still behind by one run. One more out and the season would be over.
I decide to
get back in the warm bed for the last out. Twitter mumbled with disapproval as
Manager Joe Maddon puts Dan Johnson up to bat. I felt the collective groan of
resignation across the twitterverse. Dan was known for big hits but not many
hits. Echoing the resigned sigh
emanating from my blackberry, I climbed back into bed into the warmth of the
blankets. WHAM BAM….my twitter stream exploded again as Dan Johnson
unbelievably hit a homer that tied the game. TIED the game! TIED. THE. GAME.
My husband woke
up, because I, well, yelped. He rolled over to look at me with that resigned
look only twenty-five years of marriage could produce. As he saw me sitting straight
up in bed staring fixedly at the glowing screen on my blackberry, he mumbled
sleepily, “What’s up?” “We’re tied 7 -7 in the 9th”, I squeak whispered. “Ah…good…what
time is it?” he mumbled as he rolled back over.
I took my blackberry that was glowing almost as bright
as a hovering UFO and retreated back to the corner of the room. I snuggled back
into the rocker, this time with socks on and a blanket wrapped around me. I
knew I’d be up until the game was done and that might not be anytime soon.
Play by play, tweet by tweet, we (my Twitter friends
and I) crawled through the 10th inning, then the 11th inning. I held my breath,
rocked back and forth, I rocked a lot. It was the 12th inning and Evan Longoria was
up again. The score was tied, the Rays
had two outs. I found it hard to believe
lightning would strike twice in one game. I sighed, thinking we would see yet
another inning. Then in a flash and for
the THIRD time that night, my Blackberry nearly jumped out of my hands with
news of Evan Longoria’s walk off homerun. A squeal escaped my lips and Jerry
once again rolled over with a “what happened now?” We won, we won, we won! He smiled, stretched, patted the mattress and
said “come back to bed now”.
As I climbed back into bed, I realized that the sky
was starting to lighten over the fields of the Po River Valley. Birds were
rustling in the bushes outside my windows and I could hear the stirring of the
truffle dogs. The Rays had won in a spectacular fashion and there would be more
games to follow on Twitter from the back roads of Italy. I was snuggled up
against a man who I have loved for nearly three decades. He didn’t care that
his crazy wife woke him twice during an Italian night over baseball. Later we would share a celebratory espresso or
two. Now, it was time for sleep.
