Ran off to Italy

Crazy Train

I'm writing this on a rather nice Trenitalia "Eurostar" train (not to be confused with the Channel Tunnel train) making its way from Pisa to Genoa. There's air conditioning, a set of power outlets, reclining seats, and just about everything I've come to expect from France's high-speed TGV. Only it's slow. Butt-ass slow.

But that's how it is in Italy. While it may be the home of Ferrari, it's also the home of Fiat, which as everyone knows means "Fix it again, Tony." They say that because it doesn't work. Much like the train ticket machines here. Or the bus ticket machines. Or the ticket validators. So you take your sweet time. Which is fine, because so far it means we've skipped waiting in line, ridden transit for free, and despite being way behind schedule, I'm feeling like I'm on vacation. Because I am.

We've been on the ground for less than two hours now but I'm already immersed in stereotypical Italy. Old men of few words. Public employees who don't give a damn. And getting hook-ups for speaking Italian. Never mind that I don't, really. I just know enough words to come across like those old men of few words. My little bit of Italian is delivered in a curt manner but properly accented, with a goofy American smile. I probably look psychotic. Which in local terms probably translates to "cut me a deal or I'll cut you." Or perhaps I've watched too many spaghetti westerns.

At any rate, I'm proud of my ability to communicate. Which will really be put to the test tonight. Before the train reaches Genoa, we'll get off at Rapallo on the Ligurian coast, spitting distance from the ritzy Portofino. He're we'll meet up with Makoto – my cousin who's appeared several times in this (suddenly realizing it's very old) blog now – which makes him a bit of a recurring character. We're about the same age, sharing the same love of food, drink, and travel, and some crazy people say we even look related (no small feat for mutts).  The one thing we don't have in common, though, is language. His English and French are about on par with my Japanese and Italian. Which is to say we're going to sound like old men of few words. Luckily, I imagine there will be a lot of food or drink between us.

Our wives, who probably don't share any common languages with one another, will fortunately have a baby between them. (Theirs, not ours.)

All in all, it's the start of a week with family from afar, all converging on one magical, boot-shaped wang dangling into the Mediterranean. Of course, I may not get to actually post this until the end of the week. Because like change machines, ice cold drinks, and classy sunglasses, internet is hard to come by in Italy.  Which only means you have more time to actually enjoy it. And I'm going to start doing that by closing the laptop cover, and staring out the window... NOW.

Ciao!

P.S. - Wow, I'm able to post this mere minutes after arriving in Rapallo. There's DSL at this house! Only I'm tethered to a little stool in the corner using a CAT5 cable, as fully functional wireless is a distant dream. :-/

A Family Affair

I knew my cousin's a bit of a celeb around these parts, but I didn't know to what extent.

He couldn't magically make our train arrive on time, but our ocean-view digs at Rapallo on the coast by Portofino more than make up for it. And the magnificent sunshine and summery temperatures? Somehow I don't think he's got connections with God or Mother Nature or whomever you believe is in charge of such things, but it's certainly an antidote to the miserable weather in Milan.


He also arranged a fabulous lunch at Rêve, the ultra-posh, shabby chic, French-inspired restaurant-cum-antique-shop. I'm not sure what I loved more: The squid ink ravioli, the gnocchi in octopus sauce, the Asian-inspired pasta in langoustine tails (and some whole ones for good measure), the warm octopus salad, the fresh porcini mushrooms with potatoes, the stunningly crisp local white wine... Or the tear-jerkingly sweet part, the lovely owner giving my aunt (i.e. my cousin's mom) a gigantic bouquet of white roses to welcome her.

I suppose it pays to be the best (and possibly only real Japanese) sushi chef in the region. Considering his restaurant is the upstairs of a funky, cool, but nowhere-near-fancy bar in Santa Margherita, it's gotta be all about his skill with the knife and his penchant for fresh fish (he goes marketing at the docks early in the morning, just like the guys do at Tsukiji in Tokyo). That and he's a genuinely cool guy, and it was awesome to see how everyone in town really likes him.

He used to work his magic at a chic, glamorous Japanese restaurant in central Milan (which we went and checked out - very schwanky!) but to me, it's obvious he made the right move to the coast. I may be a big city dweller, but there's no way to resist the charm and beauty of the Ligurian coast. The colorful houses with their trompe l'oeil facades, the gorgeous blue sea, the windy roads, the sheer cliffs and green mountains... and a near absence of English-speaking tourists. At least, in the off-season.

While the Portofino area is a playground for the international jetset in the summer, early November seemed to be blissfully... blissful. After four days, it finally felt as though I was on vacation, able to totally relax, and kick back as it was time for someone else (my cousin!) to lead the way.


Unfortunately, it was only to be for a day.

Last night was my last night in Italy. Which in and of itself is bad enough. I always hate the end of a good trip - even one involving getting soaked to the bone in rain and losing a bag of expensive goodies. But it's far worse knowing that I'm on this train alone.

By now, Alannah's with the rest of my family in Cinque Terre for the day - our trains left Rapallo at roughly the same time - and I'm on my way to Torino, where I'll hang out for a bit before catching the high-speed train to Paris in the evening.

If I were a daredevil, I'd have headed down to Cinque Terre for a bit to squeeze out the last bit of time with my wife and family before hopping a train to Torino, but I want a big cushion. Not only do I have to get across Torino to catch the Paris train, but this current train is already half an hour behind schedule.

My sense of utter non-surprise is outweighed only by a silly, juvenile sadness. My wife (and my mom and aunts) will be back in Paris in just a week, but I have this nasty, queasy feeling gnawing at my stomach.

Of course, it could just be all the goddamn food I've been eating.