Category — Food

We woke early in Rome.  We’d slept with the shutters open, for air in the hot roman night, and for light.  The window was the only real source of either.  The hotel was on a busy street, Via Nazionale, and located near the Victor Emanuel monument and the Coliseum.  Good for sightseeing.  Not so good for sleeping.   It was also on some kind of route for emergency vehicles.  We went to sleep to the sound of sirens, and both woke about 5:30 to the sound of air brakes.  I rolled out of the canopy bed and walked to the window, the wood floors creaking under me.

No fewer than 6 fire engines were parked across the street.  I watched for a bit, giving the play-by-play to my aunt.  “Now they’re milling about.  Now I think they’re going to get cappuccino.  Now they’re walking back to the trucks.”

“Should we be worried?”

“No, let’s go back to sleep.  It’s a couple of hours until breakfast.”

Of course.  Food is the number one concern with my family.  So we put our heads back on the pillow, to dream of cappu and cornetta.  A couple of hours later, we’d packed up and were ready for breakfast.  “Colazione,” we practiced together.  Every meal is a vocab lesson for me, and so it is becoming for the Ant.  (An aside:  My aunt’s name is Leslie.  But we call her “the Ant.”  It’s kind of like her superhero name.)

We opted to walk down the flight of stairs to the lobby, rather than take the tiny elevator.  The hotel seemed pretty small the night before, but as we walked past the front desk, turning right, and then right again, it became clear that the three floors were jam packed with rooms.  Nearing the breakfast area, we passed a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out on a little courtyard.

One of the great things about a city like Rome, is that it’s been built up over the years.  Buildings are built around and on top of old buildings, with courtyards enclosed by bridges and all manner of maze-like scenes materializing.

Once in the breakfast area, we rushed the cereal table, making ourselves bowls of cornflakes and yogurt.  It seemed so very exotic in Rome.  The girl in charge of the room motioned to a little table, and we sat while she brought us plates of splendor.

Bread, and croissants, and pate, and cheese.  Along with the cereal and yogurt, and the cappuccini she was now making for us, this would be a great breakfast.  But, in addition, each table was equipped with what I consider the snack bin.  Most bed and breakfasts I’ve stayed in in Italy have something similar to this.  These are filled with nice, packaged items that can be tossed in a purse and pulled out later, like on a train, or in the Coliseum for a mid-day snack.

Ours had dry bread wafers, cookies, and nutella and jam packages.  We packed half of the bin into the Ant’s purse while we waited for our coffee.

Coffee.  We’d arrived late enough the day before that it was unseemly to have cappuccino.  So, this was our first.  It was lovely.  I could have had 3 more.  I didn’t.  But, in an indulgent act, I did spread the cheese and peach jam all over my bread.  Together.

Super yum.

When we were done, it was only 8:30.  We were packed up and ready to go with two hours on our hands.  We consulted the map and decided we could make a run to the Coliseum and still have time to catch the 10:40 train to Salerno.  We left our bags at the front desk and ventured out.

And we found a crowd.  I’d noticed signs the night before announcing that June 2 was Armed Forces Day (or something similar).  Evidently, this was a big deal.  The streets were closed off with barriers, and military personnel was everywhere.

We followed hordes of people down the streets toward the Coliseum, wondering what we would find.

Along with a stunning sky, we found the Coliseum closed off, and firemen standing on the outside of the structure.

Yeah, that was strange.  We looked over the ledge at the street below and saw what was clearly a parade route.  After standing for about 30 seconds, a cute-as-a-button motorcycle cop told us it wasn’t possible for us to stand where we were.  We refrained from pinching him and moved along, deciding that we’d better head back quickly if we wanted to get out of the city before the excitement began.

As much fun as it would have been to take in the parade with the locals, we really had no idea what we would be getting ourselves into, and we needed to be in Salerno.  So, we high-tailed it back up the street, around the barriers, and through the hordes of military, police, and spectators.

Once out of the area, we found the streets relatively calm, taking time to appreciate the beauty of Rome’s alleyways and grand piazzas.

We hiked back up to the lobby to retrieve our bags, and made one last trip in the little elevator.

Then we struck out on our own adventure, my giant drab backpack strapped to me, and the Ant’s purse stocked with rations for the day.

My first night back in Italy was spent in Rome.  Rome.  The eternal city.  I like to call it Romissimo, because it strikes me as the Texas of Italy:  everything is the biggest and best here.

Last time I was here, in December, it was my first time in the city.  I had spent 6 weeks hiking around the Tuscan country side, and a week in Venice, acclimating to the bustling and winding streets.  That is to say, I was a little prepared for Rome.  I only spent two nights that time, so I made sure to pack in as much as I could.  I spent 5 or 6 hours the first night walking through the city.  I was exhausted at the end, but I had been prepared.

But on this trip, my aunt and I decided to stop-over in Rome on our way south.  We had just one night.  So, starting at 6, we walked to our hotel, housed in an old pallazo.  We were greeted by an empty entry and a set of steep, marble stairs.

We looked around the tiny space and noticed an elevator.  At least, we noticed a tiny wood and glass door and a brass-plated call button.  We pushed the button, and the lights flickered on inside the little elevator car just behind the glass.  I froze.  I have recurring dreams.  This is one of them.  It’s not a nightmare, necessarily, but the riding up and down in little, teeny, wood and glass elevators that don’t completely work, is something that I do in my sleep.  It’s not something I really enjoy in my sleep.  I wasn’t sure how I’d handle it in my wake.

But this seemed to be working alright, so I looked at my aunt, took a deep breath and stepped inside.

It took some maneuvering to get us both in there with our luggage.  Like a sliding puzzle, there was one way for us to fit, and one way for us to get out.  I went in with my pack, and she followed, pushing her rolling suitcase in front of her so that she could reach out and pull the door shut.

Then we pushed the button and the little car lurched to life, coming to an abrupt stop at the second floor.  Given our large bags, we used the lift rather more than usual, and we became pretty good at the routine.  Though I never really got good at being completely comfortable in it.

Still, we were now at the hotel, and after check-in and a quick orientation, we headed to the room, a great, high-walled square with parquet floors and a painted, beamed ceiling , reminiscent of the palazzo it once was.

We were there just long enough to drop our stuff, lock our valuables in the makeshift safe/minibar, and head back out.  The breakfast from the plane was a distant memory, and my favorite pizza shop was waiting.

The night was hot and humid, so we didn’t even take jackets.  I only had 2 layers on, which is near crazy-talk for me.  Still, it felt like a night to live on the edge.  We walked briskly through the city, making a b-line for Piazza San Eustachio and it’s twirly spire overlooking Pizza Zaza and it’s little outdoor seating area.  Well, it was kind of a b-line.  We swung past the Trevi Fountain to toss our coins for a promised return, and the Pantheon to see its enormous columns at dusk.  And then we went around the corner to Zaza.

I could nearly hear a choir of angels singing when we walked into the piazza.  There it was.  Pizza.  We walked up to the little counter, and stood next to a police officer as he ordered.  The two of us sidled up and gawked at the great rectangles of cheese and bread.  I recognized the girl behind the counter, her sweet hardness comforting to me at the end of a long trip.  We ordered enough for three people and wondered aloud if it would be enough.  Then we filed past the state security agents that had arrived, their dark suits, sunglasses and earpieces standing out in the bright, little shop.

I’ve often thought back to the last time I was in Rome.  It feels like a dream, even now.  But one taste of the pizza told me it had been real.  I was back.  We were in Rome, eating pizza with church bells ringing in the background.

While we ate, I’m not sure how much we actually spoke.  We gestured and grunted, and the older Italian ladies with their perfect coifs and designer sunglasses chattered about us in low voices.  We didn’t stop until every morsel was consumed.

Zucchini, caprese, patata.  Each was as good as the last.  I licked the mozarella juice off of my fingers, not wanting to waste a drop.

Next, we decided to patronize Giolitti, the gelato shop I’d discovered last time around.  The huge shop wasn’t hard to find, just around the corner, with its enormous lighted sign, and groups of people milling about outside.

This time, there was no line.  There were no children to step in front of us.  Just an open case of beautiful gelato, and a bemused clerk.  The Ant picked out niocciolo (hazelnut) and marone glace.  I opted for the marone glace (something I’d had recommended to me in Venice, and has become one of my favorite gelato flavors), and then asked the gelato slinger what he thought would go well.  “You like cinnamon?”  Damn.  He was on to me.  I thought I had that phrase down pat.  I guess I’ll just have to eat more gelato to practice my phrase-work.  I told him that was good, and he went off to get my chocolate-dipped cone.  Mid-way to the cinnamon, he stopped, put his hand up and said, “No.  Fondante.  You like chocolate?”  He was sincere and absolute.  This was the better choice.  Well, of course I like chocolate.

I really enjoy asking for the food advice of people who work with the menu on a daily basis.  They have a much better sense of what will go well together.  This guy was no exception.

He handed over the beautiful cone and we walked out of the store, grinning at the clerk behind the register.  She returned a knowing smile, watching us licking at the supremely good gelato.  Taking a quick break, we stood outside the store in the growing dusk.  We decided we had enough energy to walk up the Corso to Piazza Del Popolo (perhaps you know this location from Angels and Demons) to see the twin churches.

They were as beautiful and haunting as I remembered.  We sat on the steps of the piazza’s central fountain and gazed up at the obelisk, one of 8 gazillion brought back from Egypt.

Choosing a side street, we made our way past the vendors selling lighted helicopter-like toys, spinning them high into the air and catching them again.  We found the crowds over to the Spanish Steps, named for the Spanish Embassy at the top.

The steps are beautiful, and the view from the top is pretty magnificent, but we had been traveling for about 30 hours and still had a lot to see.  So we skipped the climb and mad our way back across town to the carnival-like atmosphere of Piazza Navona and Campo di Fiori.

Piazza Navona is home to the Four Rivers Fountain (also of Angels and Demons fame), as well as two other, less famous fountains.  Tonight, it also played host to legions of artists showing their wares.  and a street performer who had gathered maybe 50 people to him as he rode a super-tall unicycle and juggled flaming swords.

Campo di Fiori houses a monument to Bruno, who was burned at the stake and canonized as a “saint” by the people for speaking his truth.  It also houses vendors of various types.  Tonight, it was inhabited by more vendors with the lighted toys. We sat for a moment and considered our escape route back to the hotel.  We weren’t far, but our feet were beginning to rebel.  After all, we’d been walking for about 5 hours in Rome alone, and hadn’t even had a cappuccino to keep us awake.

We followed a crowd of people out of the piazza and ended up walking past the Victor Emanuel monument – always impressive, and especially at night.

And then it was back up one of the hills and on to the hotel.  All in all, we only made one unintended circle, and had to ask for directions once.  Even then, we were on the right track.

As we climbed into the elevator one more time, we were relieved.  We had seen Rome.  A lot of it.  We’d tasted it, and heard it and touched it.  But we weren’t done with it.  We climbed into the big bed, under the high-painted ceiling, listening to the city continue on through the night, our window flung wide in the humid Roman night.  Romissimo indeed.

There’s one God at the Vatican, but lots of gods in Rome.  I think that’s why there are so many pizza shops.  I’m guessing it takes a lot to feed all those gods, and I’m sure they eat pizza.

It seems everywhere I go I talk about how it’s the best pizza I’ve ever had.  But at a shop around the corner from the Pantheon I truly had some of the best pizza – ever.  Yes, ever.

After a long trip into the eternal city from my home base in Tuscany, I was hungry.  It was the feast of the Immaculate Conception, which meant a lot of places were closed.  I consulted my handy guidebook and made a plan of attack for the evening – starting with food.  Pizza Zaza stood out as a shop in the vicinity of things I wanted to see.  It was worth a shot.

I traversed the city, and was ecstatic that I could find the shop, and ecstatic that it was open.  After going through the motions with the girl behind the counter:  “what doesn’t have meat, I’m a vegetarian, yes I eat cheese,” I picked out a piece with “sola potata” (she seemed worried that I’d be disappointed with only potato), and one with what I thought was onions or leeks or something similar (I just pointed and she confirmed that it was meatless).

Eyes wide, I walked my pizza to the little outdoor sitting area in the piazza overlooked by several churches.

It was a lot of pizza.  I was really hungry.  With the first bite, I realized this wasn’t like anything I’d had before.  The crust was crispy, but thick.  The potato pizza had big, thin slices baked right into a thin layer of cheese, and fresh rosemary.  Only potato, my ass.  It was heavenly.

I finished up my potato pieces and reached for the other.  I took a bite without really looking at it.  WOW!  It almost tasted like cheddar – which I hadn’t tasted in a while – but it was cleaner.  It had a rich, yellow-orange flavor that caught me completely off-guard.  I knew what this was – squash-blossom.  Fantastic!  I was eating squash-blossom pizza in a piazza in Rome on the feast of the Immaculate Conception with an accordion celebrating in the background.

It was so good that, as it began to rain, I sat staring at my pizza until it was so wet that I had to move.  Still staring and eating, I just scooted myself up to the table of ladies next to me, who were under the only umbrella in the little sitting area.  I don’t think I even looked up.

I’d planned on that being my lunch, but, along with the excellent gelato I had about 20 minutes later, and the hot chestnuts eaten on the steps of the Trevi fountain, it also served as my dinner.  Come to think of it, the gods might eat gelato and chestnuts on the steps of the Trevi fountain, too.

“This post has been entered into the Grantourismo and HomeAway Holiday-Rentals travel blogging competition”

I think Salem has one of the strangest, and perhaps ugliest, perhaps prettiest Capitol buildings ever.  The outside is strange, the inside is strange.   It’s just strange.  And totally Oregon.

I’m sitting in the House chambers right now, where the floor is covered in carpet adorned with images of the White Pine, Oregon’s state tree, and the wall behind the podium is covered in a mural showing the state’s organizational meeting – the first “Wolf Meeting” at Champoeg.  When they recarpeted the building, people bought sections of the old stuff to hang on their walls.  But it’s the doornobs I love.

I’m here for one of my favorite events:  Tribal Government Day.  It’s one of the big three food days that happen at the Capitol.  The other two are chicken day (poultry lobby) and beef day (beef lobby).  As a state worker, you become plugged in to what is going on in “the building,” especially when it involves free stuff.  And when it comes to free stuff, Tribal Day is the pinnacle.

Here’s how it works:  the tribes and confederated tribes of Oregon come to the Capitol for the day.  They set up information booths and give away things.  Info pamphlets, pencils, brightly colored shopping bags emblazoned with tribe insignia, playing cards, etc.  Most of these booths have upright displays, whether it’s poster board with pictures of tribe members walking, and hand-lettered captions like, “exercise!”  Or an enlargement of an 1855 unratified treaty.  The tribes may be sovereign, but they’re not missing out on the commercialism that plagues the nation as a whole.

At the same time, the Casinos set up spectacular food displays, usually including ice or butter sculptures, and great trees of chocolate-covered fruit kebobs.  White-jacketed catering staff replace plates of melon, while ice cream scoopers work the line of hungry state employees, doling out tastes of the huckleberry/hazelnut ice cream that Umpqua  dairy makes exclusively for the casinos.

The food is great, but my favorite part has always been the performance in the house chambers.  With the entire legislature seated in the chambers, and the galleries packed with visitors, the morning session is opened with the drumming and chanting of tribe members.   Seated around a large drum, beautiful people bless the proceedings.  I cry every time.  With the legislators sitting at their desks, their seats of power, little American flags standing sentinel over their day’s agendas, the tribes bless the chamber, bless the state, and bless the working relationship of those who make the decisions for the state.

The tribes and confederations are recognized as sovereigns.  They have the right to govern their lands – the ones covered by treaties – for the most part, and to protect the health and welfare of their people.  (I know this is a super-simplified statement.)  Once a year the tribal leaders are invited to stand at the head of the legislature, symbolic equals.

In years past I’ve heard the governor and the senate president speak eloquently about the tribes and the relationship between the Oregon government and the Tribal Councils.  I’ve seen beautiful performances by high-school students proud of their heritage.  I’ve heard tribal elders speak about the tragedy of high-school drop-out rates.  I’ve watched as people queue up to get their free bag and pack of cards, and wait for an hour to walk past the butter sculpture.

It used to be called Tribal Information Day.  Now it’s Tribal Government Day.  I wonder if next it will be called Casino Food Day.

This year is an off-year.  The legislature isn’t in session.  I’ve never been here for Tribal Day in an off-session year.  I came for breakfast, walked through the smaller than ever information area, and came into the House chamber to sit and think about the years when I’ve been inspired by the spirit of cooperation demonstrated here.

The truth is, I’m here for the food, and the speeches, and the performances.  I’m here to feel hope that all peoples can come together and work toward the good of all members of all societies.  I’m here to feel a little better, knowing cultures as beautiful as those on display today aren’t completely erased.  But I don’t know how to do more than watch.  How do I talk with a woman about tribal health centers?  How do I start a conversation about unratified treaties?  How do I acknowledge my privileged guilt without letting it hobble me?  There are no pretty speeches to distract me this year from this question.

Now I’m off to listen to this year’s performance, and to seek out  my other favorite part of Tribal Day.  It’s a tad cliché.  I’m a little embarrassed to admit it.  It’s the fry bread.  If you keep your eyes open, there’s usually a spot in the corner of a table of casino food where authentic fry bread hides.  Sometimes it’s paired with fresh marionberry preserves.  This isn’t from the casino.  It’s from members of the tribes.  It’s made by families and shared lovingly.  If it’s an extra lucky year, someone will have brought smoked salmon.  The real deal.  Caught in our rivers and smoked by hand.  You have to look carefully, or it’ll slip by.  A mess of fish and bread out of character from the polish of the ice sculpture.  But for those who know, it makes the hour-long line worth every second.

Portland is my home base.  In between travels, I find myself back here, staying with or housesitting for friends.  This return trip to Portland has been a string of housesitting gigs, punctuated by forays out into the exciting and quirky spots that Portland has to offer.

Last night I had a free night in between gigs, so I decided to get a room at one of Portland’s landmarks, the Kennedy School.  Part of the venerable McMenamins family, the Kennedy School is housed in a 1915 schoolhouse that was once part of the Portland school system.  In addition to 23 classroom/guest rooms, the property includes a soaking pool, 5 bars, a huge, interesting restaurant and a theater pub.

If you haven’t experienced McMenamins, here’s the skinny:  many of the bars, restaurants and hotels are located on historic properties in the Northwest.  The properties are restored and revitalized, filled with artwork based on the history of the properties.  The feel of the locations is one of history and carnival all in one.  Reality alert:  the restaurants are notoriously understaffed, making for an often challenging service experience, but the overall atmosphere almost always makes up for this.

Yesterday, I checked in to my room – Originally “classroom 4” and now the “Mirror Mirror” room, and headed to the theater for some dinner and a movie.  Along with lodging, the room rate includes free movies in the old auditorium and unlimited soaking in the soaking pool.

The theater is located in the school’s auditorium.

Movie-goers can order pizza, calzones, and a variety of other pub food – as well as beer and wine – to be delivered to the sofas and tables that serve as theater seats.

Yesterday was Wednesday, the day that the Kennedy School holds “Mommy Matinees,” movies for parents to bring their kids without concern for the running, talking and screaming discouraged in other theaters.  I ordered a veggie calzone, staked out a velvet sofa, and turned on my computer to check email while I waited for “The Princess and the Frog” to start.

The movie was completely enjoyable and the surroundings delightful.  And it was great to walk down the hall to my classroom bedroom when it was over.

The room itself was pretty darn cool.  The walls were lined with the original chalkboards, some of which were sliding panels enclosing old-school  coat racks doubling as a closet.  Too cool.

The room was decorated with phrases from the fairy tale “Snowdrop” (you might know it better as Snow White and the Seven Dwarves).  The “Mirror, mirror on the wall” sequence was cleverly written backward on the bathroom wall.

The thing I was most looking forward to was the soaking pool.  Located where the teacher’s lounge used to be, the soaking pool is a beautiful, tiled courtyard area.  The water is the right level of hot, with bubbles running down one length of the pool.  Last night it was a good mix of Portland-style, tri-athlete-looking folks, Rastafarians, steam rising from their hats and dreads, and young families sporting matching racing goggles (kids are allowed in the pool until 8PM, so plan to go later if you aren’t willing to move aside for them).

One of the great things about the Kennedy School is that it feels like one big living room.  It’s almost like visiting a friend’s big, old house.  There’s a lot of room to kick back and relax.  Like when I decided I wanted a brownie and ice cream at 10:00 at night.  I grabbed my computer and trotted down to the Courtyard Restaurant to eat and write.

I sat and listened to a few other people who were chatting and snacking.  And I wrote about meeting a new friend in the soaking pool.  When I’d mopped up the last bit of ice cream I packed up and walked the 50 yards back to my room – where I passed out in a brownie-induced stupor.

My time at the Kennedy school was fantastic.  The property is amazing; the room was original, roomy, comfortable and spotless.  The movie was entertaining and the soaking pool was ultra-relaxing, even with kids walking the perimeters of both.  And the food was good.  I’d say I had one of the best service experiences I’ve ever had with a McMenamins property.  It was so enjoyable that I’ll be recommending the place to my parents next time they’re in town.  It really does offer a genuinely Portland experience.

It’s nice to find new places to have adventures, and nice to be reminded that adventures are in my back yard – wherever I am.