Slovenia

After three cities (four if you count Pisa, where our flight back to Italy landed) in nine days, with countless transportation connections, a lot of late nights, various excessive and degenerate behaviors, finally coming back home in Florence just in time to start another week of school and work, we did what any reasonable couple would do. We went to Slovenia.

We did wait a couple of days, but then we hopped on a bus and went to Ljubjana, the capital of this exactly-as-old-as-my-students country, previously part of Yugoslavia. You might well be thinking, why did you go to Slovenia? And why so quickly on the heels of spring break? The answer is simple. We went because we could. Gonzaga-in-Florence organizes several weekend trips for students. I had talked with the Travel Learning Program staff earlier in the semester about the possibility of going on the Southern France trip (no go -- not surprisingly, that was a popular one), and they steered me towards the Slovenia trip. I guess Slovenia doesn't have quite the name recognition as France, because there was still room on the bus. So, following the rule "don't say no unless you have a really good reason," we signed up.

(not my photo -- you can tell because it is summer in this photo!)

I have to admit that I was, and to some extent still am, embarrassingly uninformed about Slovenia, to the extent that I had to look up the capital and the official language on Wikipedia the night before we left. It's a very small country -- perhaps the size of Washington state? -- and Ljubjana, the capital city, is about the size of Spokane. The country is famous for almost nothing, either historically or currently. It was essentially untouched by and did not participate in the war in Bosnia Herzegovina. It was a fairly sleepy part of the Austrian empire for several centuries, and then a fairly sleepy part of the Eastern Block (I was amused to see that the closest reference to the Soviet Union found anywhere in the National Museum of History was a line about how the twentieth century was a time "of experimentation with socialization.") I did discover one endearing fact: it is the setting for Twelfth Night, (my favorite Shakespearean comedy, should that ever arise as a trivia question) as it was known as the Illyrian provinces in the Early Modern Era. I guess Sebastian and Viola's ship crashed into the, er, swamps that constitute the country's coastal area. Shakespeare never was that good with geography.

Ljubjana (the first j is silent; the second functions as an y) is an fairy tale of a city. There is a castle hanging on a promontory above the city. The city itself was destroyed by an earthquake in 1511 and was rebuilt in a Baroque Renaissance style. There was another earthquake in the 19th century, which made room for a number of truly stunning Austrian Secessionist (basically, art nouveau) buildings. In the 1920s and 30s, the public spaces in downtown, including the large market area, the river walk, and several bridges, were almost completely renovated by Joze Plecnik. His vision was only finished two years ago with the completion of the wonderfully grotesque Butcher's bridge, decorated with terrifically creepy statues of largely flayed bodies, some bronze internal organs and mutated frogs here and there, and the best, most horrible Adam and Eve sculpture I've ever seen.

Actually, the Butcher's bridge is a bit of an anomaly, because the rest of downtown Ljubjana is shockingly picturesque. Most of Plecnik's style seems to be a curvilinear yet beefy classicism, which does a surprisingly effective job of blending the Baroque and Nouveau style of the city together. The river is flanked on both sides by broad, well lit avenues lined with cafes, bars, and boutiques. An enormous and deep pink Baroque church presides over the main square, and very cool dragons guard the aptly named Dragon Bridge. And then the castle seems to float above everything. The entire city seems brand new, well scrubbed, and ready for a Disneyland Main Street Parade.

What we did not find in Ljubjana was good food, alas, although the fault may have been ours. We ate some shockingly bad pizza, some very good Slovene bread, and some otherwise fairly generic food. We both avoided the "meat cheese" the hotel offered in the breakfast buffet. Fortunately, we had much better luck eating in Bled, the resort town on the shores of alpine Lake Bled. Lake Bled is like a smaller, post-Soviet Lake Como, by which I mean that, like Lake Como, it is shockingly beautiful and surprisingly Alp-y. It showed no signs of ever having had Lake Como's money, anything approaching Como's tourist industry, or Como's chicness. But, Lake Bled does have an island with a 15th center church on it, accessible only by gondola-like row boats, which Como does not have.

On the advice of our Slovene tour guide, who was born in Bled, for lunch we tried Burek, the local answer to a hamburger. It's a sort of meat pie, only flakier. Imagine a cross between a meat-filled danish and  spanikopita, except with meat instead of spinach. If what is coming to mind seems high on the grease and salt scale, difficult to eat, and pretty much destined to ruin whatever item of clothing you are currently wearing, then you get the idea. It was also really satisfying. The meat was simple ground beef (I think), but it had a subtle mix of spices -- I'm pretty sure there was some paprika, but also some nutmeg and maybe a touch of oregano -- that was really delightful. We also took our guide's advice and had a cream cake from the best sweet shop in Bled. It was good, but I don't think it was the cream cake to transform my understanding of what a cream cake could be, which is pretty much what she had promised me. I suppose it would have been difficult to meet that expectation, since I had no idea what a cream cake was to begin with. It was, at heart, whipped cream on custard with some sort of cookie base. Is that what you understand cream cake to be? Anyway, it was good, wholesome creaminess, but not exactly a revelation.

To top the trip off, the bus stopped at Postojna Caves. I've never quite understood the draw of caves as a tourist stop, but these are pretty cool. They are a Unesco World Heritage Site, which is euro-zone for National Monument, so they were extremely accessible, with a four kilometer train ride in and out and a 2 kilometer guided and incredibly well lit tour. The calcium formations really were breathtaking, diverse in color and in shape. I still probably won't go out of my way to see caves, but now because I'm pretty sure no cave will ever be as large or as pretty as the Postojna caves.

Spring Break, part 3: London, or, I'll Eat Ten More

Wednesday morning, we woke up in Argegno, Lake Como (I was pleased and frankly a little surprised that my encounter with missoltini the night before had not had disastrous consequences). We took, in order, a bus, a train, the subway, another bus, a flight, another train, and the London Underground, and by evening, we found ourselves in Soho, in the heart of London. All connections worked and were on time, so here's three cheers to public transportation!

We find a lot of our accommodations through AirBnB. The name is a little misleading, since basically none of the listings are bed and breakfasts. Instead, they are anything from rooms up to free standing homes, about half for commercial medium-length rentals about about half just people's places. We talked with one guy in Portland who lists his place every summer while he and his wife teach for NOLS up in Alaska. I know that AirBnB had a disaster, both of the real and the PR kind, last year, but so far we have had really good luck with them. As with any of these social networking style cites, it pays to read the comments CAREFULLY. So, no promises, but we found our great loft in Portland through the site, and we found this stunning flat in Soho. The location was almost miraculous, since it was smack dab in the middle of one of the busiest pedestrian neighborhoods I have ever experienced, and yet somehow felt tucked away and super quiet. The flat itself was well decorated, but the best thing about it was the ginormous rooftop terrace. No view, but so nice to have outdoor space in which to lounge.

London has a very special place in my heart, and not only because basically every piece of literature that I love (and study) get written there. The summer after my sophomore year in college, my parents wonderfully paid for me to join my then best friend Anjali for three weeks in London. She was just coming off her own year abroad in Rome (where she reverted to carnivorousness and, I think, had her first taste of alcohol outside of the Eucharist), and was staying with her extended family in, I believe, St. John's Wood, which was then a heavily East Indian neighborhood.

The trip was equal parts fascinating and wonderful and awkward. My commitment to art and literature was cemented, and my friendship with Anjali frayed.  The most important part of the trip, however, was that I became acquainted with the London Underground. I had done a decent amount of high-responsibility traveling basically on my own because of my horse, but this was the first time I had traveled totally solo, and the first time I had left the country (except for drives into Canada). I was pretty nervous about getting lost, about getting robbed, apparently about starving to death (I found my journal from that trip recently, and it was all about food -- no surprise! -- but mostly about the price and abundance of food. I was very happy to have discovered ploughman's lunches at pubs, which usually provided a lot of food for very little money, and I loved fish and chips for the same reason). Anyway, all that anxiety just melted away once I realized I understood the tube. I couldn't get lost! I could go anywhere! I was master of the city! It was one of the most empowering moments of my life, right up there with the time I took a 6'6" foot jump in warm-up by accident and cleared it, the time I stood up to Roland Greene during the oral defense of my dissertation, and the time I ran troublemaker in Alberton Gorge without having to swim.

London is an amazing city, and I wonder if it is maybe having a particularly shining moment. There was construction everywhere, and much of it had to do with public spaces large and small. Leicester Square was closed for construction, and the gardens in Covent Garden were being worked on. Everything seemed gleamingly clean. While I would normally say that was just in contrast with Italian cities, but we actually saw a guy with a steam wand and scraper removing gum from Carnaby Street. We were there for four nights, and that was no where near enough time to do everything even on our short list of must sees. We did make it to the Tate Modern, which was astounding, and to the British Museum, which was awe-inspiring. We did not make it to the National Library, the Tate British, the Tower. We didn't even see any theater!

(the punk/goth scene in Camden Town)

What we did do was gorge ourselves on food. One of the results of reverse-colonization is that London has an amazing diversity of cultures and their foods represented on their streets. Many of the other benefits are, of course, less desirable, but this one is definitely a plus. We had Indian twice, and never even ventured to East End where the good Indian restaurants are. We had Thai. We had amazing dumplings from a cart in the Stables Market in Camden Town. I ordered a restrained three of them, ate them all immediately, and then went back for ten more. Soho is right next to Chinatown, which allowed for a late night, post-drinking run for crispy duck pancakes, with actually crispy crispy duck! I ate ten on those, and then could have eaten ten more, maybe ten to the power of ten more. Three months in Italy, with its restrained use of spice so that the quality of the ingredients can shine through, and my tastebuds were prepped for some sizzle and spice.

(not my photo)

Did I mention that we found great Italian in London? We had a mid-day snack at Princi, an Italian cafeteria with the most beautiful little desserts. We had the millefoglie, which was layers of flacky filo interspersed with cream and berries. Sublime. It was so good we went back the next day and had exactly the same thing. If I lived in Soho, I would do that every day of my life, body shape be damned.

We also went dancing. Or, more precisely, we went to a dance club and ogled. I have never been to the kind of big city dance club where whether you get in is based on how good looking you are, so when we decided to go to the fairly well-known Punk, I was highly dubious. The benefits of being old is that even though I thought we were heading out ridiculously late (ten thirty), the club was still so empty they were trying to fill it up, so not only did we get in, we got in without a cover. The club started to fill up in the next hour, mostly with a group of about twenty kids who clearly knew each other. At the risk of sounding like a pearl-clutcher: I cannot believe what those girls were wearing. Granny panties. As outerwear. Lacy, sparkly, leather, and over sheer hose, but still clearly granny panties. It is an honest to god trend, and not some ridiculous, runway-only, not-in-real-life monstrosity. The only girls not in granny panties where in micro-minis that actually were shorter. Scales reset quickly, and one look at the brick house in a dress so short, shiny and tight even Heidi Klum would have passed it by, and the granny panties started to look downright chic. Especially the black embroidered lace number with the mesh booties. Keep in mind, neither Jeremy nor I packed anything approaching club wear, so we are both basically in jeans and t-shirts.

(also not my photo)

Anyway, the music was good, but by midnight nothing much was happening except the swilling of alcohol out of bottles at tables and posing, so we headed out. Given our attire, I think they were just as happy we were gone, since the place was filling up with the young and fashionable. You would think that, halfway around the world from home, fifteen hundred miles from Florence, in a city of eight million, my drunk run for chinese food would have been reasonably safe. But no -- just outside of china town, someone grabs my shoulders and says "Tredennick!" Three of my Gonzaga in Florence students, one of whom seemed thrilled to see me, one who seemed dazed, and one who said, several minutes into the interview, "O my god, you're my professor!" Makes one feel like a dog on their hind legs.

Anyway. London. Go there. Eat a lot. See art. Talk English. Can anything be better?

 

Spring Break, part 2: Lake Como, or, I Discover the Fifth Food I Don't Like

After three days in Milan, we hoped a train to Lake Como. Here is what I knew about Lake Como before leaving: a) it seemed likely to involve a lake b) George Clooney owns a house there, and c) rich people go there. What I did not know, and in fact continued not to know even after we arrived, was that Lake Como is in the southern edge of the Alps, and is surrounded by high, craggy mountains. The combination of lake, snowy peaks, forest, and small Italian towns make Como a spectacularly beautiful place. I think more of Clooney now. He may have questionable taste in contractually obligated girlfriends, but he has fantastic taste in real estate.

The day we arrived was rainy, foggy, and cloudy, so much so that I never saw the other side of the lake, let alone the mountains. There were some indications that we had made a couple of strategic errors in our planning. We knew it was off-season, but we had not realized that meant the inter-village ferry ran on a much reduced schedule. Como is a long, skinny glacial lake, with a series of very to only somewhat small towns every five kilometers or so around the shore. There are buses that run up both sides of the lake, but to get to the other side of the lake by bus would have required several transfers. Our rather odd Liverpudlian bed and breakfast host gave us a ferry schedule and helped us read it, only to then announce that the first ferry out of town the next day didn't leave until after noon. Since we only had one day to explore, and the ferry was our best form of transportation, we were concerned.

We went into town and had a perfectly tasty lunch, and then, armed with our ferry schedule, we tried to go to another town via ferry. We figured if we were going to go anywhere, we should do it then. We went to the boat launch and waited. And waited. No sign of the ferry. By this point the fog had lifted and we could see most of the lake: no sign of the ferry. Eventually, we gave up and just relaxed in the B&B.

(not my photo)

Fortunately for us, we found our way to La Piazetta in Argegno (that's the town we were staying in) for dinner. From the menu, it looked like a typical, casual Italian place -- pastas, pizzas, some more expensive secondi. But, from the second we were seated in the upstairs dining room, we knew we were in for at least something different. The waiter was very formal, as were the table settings. The (turns out only apparently complimentary) prosecco was excellent. When we asked his recommendation for an appetizer, he suggested we go off menu and try a sturgeon pate and cold smoked salmon combination plate. I'm so glad we did. That sturgeon pate was exceptional -- so creamy and rich, with all the sweetness of the fish but no fishiness. Even Jeremy liked it. The cold smoked salmon was also unusual, in that it had the texture of lox, but a good deal of real smoke taste. That they served this with fresh wasabi was also unexpected, especially in Italy!

Our pasta dishes were refined comfort food. I had a leek and pancetta chitarra; Jeremy had a ravioli filled with fresh farm cheese and served with browned butter and balsamic. Both were well balanced, well seasoned, and both featured perfectly chewy handmade pasta. But the real surprise was the brick chicken that we split for our secondi. It was, as we were expecting by that point, perfectly executed, with tender meat and crispy skin. What we didn't expect was that it was seasoned with some pretty serious and sophisticated Indian spices. We definitely tasted fenugreek and coriander, and I'm pretty sure there were black mustard seeds in the mix. After months of Italian food -- delicious, but basically spice free -- it tasted like heaven. If you find yourself in Lake Como (and you have some cash burning a hole in your pocket), I would definitely recommend a dinner here.

The next morning dawned warm and cloud free, and for the first time I realized that our room had the view with which I started this post. Rather than wait for the ferry, we decided to take the funivia ride up the sides of the lake, and were rewarded with some spectacular views and some very tempting hikes. We went down, discovered the bus wouldn't come for a while, so we decided to head up to the next town on foot. We were lucky that, when we were nearly there, we discovered the beginning of the "greenway," a combination hiking trail and pedestrian-friendly route connecting the next several towns. We hiked the greenway to Lenno, and then decided to try our luck with the ferry again. Turns out that not only did our landlord have no idea how to read the ferry schedule, the one he gave us was entirely wrong. Hence the waiting the day before. Fortunately, a boat was just about pulling up, so we jumped on and headed to Bellagio, armed with a new schedule.

Bellagio is, the internets tell me, the most visited of the Como towns, and I believe it. We were surrounded by Americans and Brits. The Floridian weatherman we met seemed typical -- he and his girlfriend were hitting about a European city a day. They seemed disappointed by all of it (especially Milan). At least Como was pretty, they said, and the restaurants catered to English speakers (if only they had catered to them with better food). I felt bad for them -- especially her (he was a little too slick to engender much sympathy). Like so many Americans, she had been so excited to see as much of Europe as she could, but then the whole trip was spent on trains, getting too trains, hitting the top five sites per city, and then getting back onto a train. If I could give one piece of advice to someone planning a trip to Europe, it would be to spend at least three nights in any given city. You always spend the first day hitting those "must sees." It's the second and third days, where you seek out the things specifically interesting to you, or you have no idea what you are going to find, that you get a feel for what a place is like. Plus, you need to give yourself a chance to make some restaurant mistakes in your search for a good meal or two. Okay, two pieces of advice: I would also say that investing money in good walking shoes and time figuring out public transportation are essential. The only way to enjoy most of these places is to walk around. A lot. In the morning, during the day, at night. It is much easier to head out walking if you have some confidence you can hop a bus to get back.

(also not my photo. Obviously)

Back in Argegno, we decided to try the other restaurant in town, rather than returning to outstanding but pricey La Piazetta. Mistake number one. Mistake number two: we went at Florentine dinner time, not Lake Como dinner time, so we got nearly the last dishes out of the kitchen. Mistake number three: I ordered the spaghetti Lario, made with missoltini. I was told it was a local specialty. I was told it was made with dried lake fish. I was told I could get it nowhere but near Lake Como. I had very much enjoyed my other Lake Como specialty, pasta with white fish roe, the day before for lunch. I knew I had made a mistake when my plate was set down before me and my head was enveloped in a cloud of the nastiest old fish smell I have ever smelled. I'm talking pungent, funky, perhaps even slightly fermented fish fume. But, I'm game. I like fish. I like Thai fish sauce. Heck, I even like Thai dried shrimp in small doses, which is the closest thing edible I can come up with to describe this scent. Imagine Thai dried shrimp mixed with kim chee, but without the peppers. Anyway, I tried. I really did. I take a certain amount of pride in my willingness to eat anything and try everything. But this stuff tasted just like it smelled. Worse, it was chopped up dried tails, fins, and skeleton, so it was basically noodles with rotten fish bones. As I picked a long spine out of my teeth, I cried uncle. Alas, the kitchen had already closed, so I was reduced to eating some pasta with leftover (and highly salty) mushrooms. I guess you win some and you lose some.

And for those of you wondering about my title, the list has almost doubled since coming to Italy. I now don't like the original trinity -- Doritos, licorice, and gummy candy -- and also tripe (not gross, but I do not like that internal organ flavor that builds with every bite) and missoltini. I realize I might be being unfair, and that perhaps the missoltini I had was of poor quality, or had in fact turned bad. Perhaps under different circumstances, I would discover missoltini is my new favorite food. But those circumstances will, sadly, never occur, because I plan to avoid that stuff for the rest of my days.

Were I to go to Lake Como again, I might do some things different. I would definitely bring hiking boots. My Fluevogs are as comfortable (and stylish) as two inch heels can be, but by the end of our ten km hike, my dogs were screaming. I would not go to Bellagio, but instead spend time in the towns with less name recognition. I would almost certainly rent a car or a scooter or a boat. I would not order missoltini. While not perhaps the most effortless leg of our trip, I am still incredibly happy we went, and that I got to see what may be the most spectacular lake outside of Glacier. And believe me, there is no where within a state of Lake MacDonald to get food even half as good as that at La Piazetta.

Next stop: London!

Spring Break, part 1: Milan

The near month-long hiatus since my last post has not been due to a sudden cessation of eating, or a tragic lack of topics, but rather for the much happier reason that Jeremy and I have been far too busy traveling to write. Spring break began back on March 16th, and we went a blissful ten days without our laptops. Even Jeremy managed to leave his beloved Macbook at home (although he did take both his iPhone and his iPad. Nerd. I can say that because I only brought my iPhone. Although, that is mainly because I don't have an iPad, which I otherwise would have brought.) We spent time in Milan and Lake Como, before heading north to London. The eating was good, the people watching was better, and all the travel connections worked the way we thought they would. Could anyone ask for more?

Our spring break began in Milan. We were hungry for a taste of a big, thriving city, and we were hoping to do some serious shopping. Milan, being as it is the fashion and the economic center of Italy, seemed the place to go. People here say that Milan is either the southern edge of Europe or the northern edge of Italy, and I think what they mean is that it feels at least as much like a northern European city as it does an Italian city. It is not nearly as rich in beauty as Rome, for instance, or as rich in history as Florence or Venice. It is, however, rich in riches. There is money in Milan, and lots of it, and all of it on spectacular display. From the massive modern building projects to the high profile designer fashion, from the cars people drive (we sighted many Maserati, Ferrari, Bentli, Porsche, and Ducati) to the way Milanese walk the way only Important People with Important Places to Be walk, Milan oozes capital.

As most of you know, I have something of a penchant for shoes, particularly those of the high-heeled variety. Generally, I operate under the assumption that I am quite fashionable, at least by Spokane standards. I read fashion blogs. I watch video of runway shows. I was looking forward to meeting some actual high fashion face to face. I even went to Milan with the explicit intention of blowing a ridiculous wad of cash on a pair of shoes to match the entirely lickable pair Jeremy bought in Rome last year. And believe me, we found shoes that cost a ridiculous wad of cash. They were next to the purses, dresses, coats, pants, sweaters, and everything else under the sun that also cost a ridiculous amount of cash.

It hit me while we were in 10 Corso Como, something of a mecca for the directional dresser. It is sort of a department store of high fashion, bringing under the same roof the current collections of pretty much every designer you have ever heard of and many that you haven't (unless, of course, you are really in the know). There was not a thing in that shop that was under 1000E except for the 10 Corso Como canvas totes, and even those rang up at an impressive 150E. Much of the stuff was beautiful, and I have to admit that I was surprised by how dense and lux many of the fabrics were. The silks used in Azzedine Alaia's frocks were thicker than any upholstery fabric I have ever seen, thicker than I knew silk could be, and the colors were dazzlingly saturated. But, what really hit me was how . . . dull everything was. The clothes seemed designed to be recognizable as truly expensive rather than to be expressive, either of the designer's or the wearer's vision. Fashion should be an kind of art form rather than a walking price tag. This was typical to almost exactly half of my response to Milan: wretched excess on display.

Fortunately, the other half of my response to Milan was far more positive. Milan claims to be the birthplace of aperitivi, and it does early nightlife better than any other place I have been. We spent two of our nights in a neighborhood south of downtown called Navigli, after the three confusing and unpractical seeming canals that bound the area (they were empty and rather unsightly when we were there, but I imagine could be quite pretty). The streets were lined with bars lined with bountiful buffets of food. We saw Indian, Japanese, and a surprising number of tex-mex places. To be honest, I would have been surprised had there been only one tex-mex aperitivi. Even better was that the streets were full of that peculiarly Italian mix of people: young and old, Prada and Converse shod, all mingling in happy, drunk-free, conflict-free social harmony. On Saturday night, we even found our way into a live music venue featuring The Kolors, a very good eighties cover band. I'm impressed by any band that can do convincing versions of both Michael Jackson and Nirvana, and somehow make both seem like their own.

Our final night in Milan was a Sunday, and rather than do another aperitivi crawl, we opted to search out some risotto. After all, Milan is famous for the stuff, and almost all of the rice production in Italy happens in the vicinity. After consulting Chowhound, we decided to try Abele Trattoria Temperanze (many thanks, Irene65!). It was a bit of a subway ride out into a neighborhood that was not, shall we say, displaying its wealth. The restaurant itself seemed a typical Italian neighborhood place, and certainly privileged comfort over decor. A place with Turkish toilets cannot, after all, have pretense.

We began our meal with an antipasti of smoked duck and goose, with a little salami thrown in for good measure. Both were delightfully balanced between smoke, salt, sweet, and meat, but the unctuousness of the goose fat made it the star of the plate. Then we moved on to the risotto. Now, there is much debate about the perfect consistency of risotto: should it flow across the plate, or have a certain internal coherence? Should the rice grains be completely tender, or have a little bit of tooth left?

I believe I can now offer a definitive answer. My apologies to Tom Colicchio, but it does not need to flow. It should gently mound. And yes, one should be able to identify a firm center to each grain, although I would describe it as slightly softer than al dente pasta.  I ordered mussel and broccoli rabe, which was a master class in seasoning. How did the mussels stay salty while the risotto was slightly sweet? The bitter-sweetness of the rabe was the perfect bridge between the two flavors. Jeremy got the ricotta and chestnut, and that to me was a revelation. The ricotta was almost too much, almost too creamy, the natural starch of the rice almost overpowered by the dairy. Almost, but not. The chestnuts were sweet and meaty without being mealy or bitter or burnt. The whole effect was as close to dessert as one could get without a hint of sugar.

As they say in Big Night, it's just rice. But oh, who knew what rice could be. It's enough to redeem an entire city of wretched excess. Thankfully, there is so much more to Milan than merely rice and excess.

The next day, we headed out of Milan to Lake Como. But that is a discussion for another day.