It's 11am in Italy right now. Which means that in good ol' California, USA, it is 3am yesterday.

I made two telephono calls to Italia today. I made the first one around 1pm (my time). I needed to confirm a new hotel reservation. You see I ditched the hotel I told you about here. Can you believe it? After all that work! Well I did. And here's why:

Airline tickets. Yup.

Because I booked my ticket to Rome for the cost of the taxes ($350), I had to be a bit more flexible with my dates. And so I arrived in Rome a day before my reservation at the Hotel Mimosa would have begun. But that really didn't matter anyway because I ended up booking the middle eastern trip from Jordan to Egypt during the original dates in Rome. So, it was all a big mess for a few minutes. But don't worry. It was crystal clear in my noggin.

Once I had Jordan and Egypt booked, including airfare to Amman and a night in Amman prior to my tour, I went back to my tenacious Roman hotel search and came up with this beaut: http://www.saturniahotel.com/en/home.php



How do you like them apples? A good two stars better than the previously booked (and proudly one-star) accommodations. And not much more expensive (even taking into account the dollar/euro exchange). I booked two stays with them. One night on arrival in Rome, to get some R&R (and pasta) before heading back to the airport and onward to Asia. The second stay to bookmark the trip and give me some much needed "getting to know you time" with my favorite city on earth. If we're going to be old friends, Roma and I, we must begin somewhere.

The second phone call to Rome today just happened. At three AM. (So I suppose the calls happened on two different days, but I haven't slept yet! I'd be grumpy about it except that it's all for Italia, dahling!)

You see, I had to call the Hotel Saturnia at 11:00am, local time in order to speak with someone who parli l'inglese. You understand? No? Therein lies the whole, comical conundrum.

Virgilio speaks English and works from 11am onward. The fellow I spoke with yesterday spoke only um 'po l'inglese. And seeing as I speak only um 'po l'Italiano, we had ourselves a real pickle past the "How do you do's."
(Buon giorno!/Buona Sera!)

When finally I spoke English with Virgilio (despite how desperately I wish I could speak fluent Italian!), he was perfectly lovely fellow, quite amused by my "Americanisms," and he easily confirmed my reservation in his musically accented English.  Zip, zip. 12 hours of waiting. Question answered in under two minutes. Done and done.

When I exclaimed to him"Perfecto!," he chuckled and said to me, (to emphasize that two could play at the game of attempting to speak each others' languages, except that he actually can speak mine)"Okey Dokey." But it sounded more like this: Ohkeeee D'ohkee. And then I chuckled.

I suppose it's only apposite.

One of the perks of traveling is that you meet other travelers and make travel friends. And they have travel friends. And everyone has different experiences. When you get travelers together they share their secrets, locations, hotels, suggestions, things gleaned from locals.

Travel gossip.
Invaluable information.

Some of the most amazing places I've ever been have been due to travel gossip and those in-the-know; The Crane in Barbados. Ffreyes beach (yes, there are two F's in that) in Antigua. Cafe Le Nummachia in Rome.

Today I was given a new juicy tidbit: Malta. It came via a friend of a friend.
Malta is an archipelago of three main islands between Sicily and Tunisia. It has a rich history that incorporates Greek, Phoenician, Carthagian, Roman, Byzantine, Arab, Norman, Ottoman, French and British Rules. It is a gorgeous Mediterranean island country.






At first I thought I'd file it under "Add to the list." But when google-mapped Malta and I saw that it was just below Italy and very accessible to both Rome and Cairo.

Hmmm....
Wheels are spinning in my head. (Apparently there are wheels in my head.)

For my trip in April: I've got everything booked but my flight from Cairo to Rome (from there I was planning on going to Naples via train for a few days and then heading back to Rome). I almost bought that flight from Cairo to Rome, but something stopped me. Some little itch in the back of my head that said: Yes, you want to go to Naples and eat the world's best pizza, see Pompeii and swim in Capri, but do you really want to do it on this trip? Shouldn't you maybe save it for a trans-Italy trip?

That's what the itch said to me.
But then I didn't know what I would do if I ditched Naples. So I made loose plans (refundable hotel in Napoli) and just went with it.

And then I heard the travel gossip about Malta...

Rome to Jordan to Egypt to Malta to Rome. I like it.

Please stand by.

I am, once again, contemplating the logistics of my upcoming travel extravaganza. This morning it occurred to to me that with this trip, I will be adding two more countries to my current list of 41. How exciting is that? I know. Pretty darned.

But wait, there's more.

In addition to bringing my count to 43, I will also be adding two continents. Two entire continents! I tell ya, this is exciting stuff. And by two entire continents, I do not mean that I will have traveled the entire continent, literally. Just think of it in terms of those fun little maps. You know, the ones with the dotted lines and the animated airplanes flying from place to place. Once you visit a continent, the entire danged thing lights up gleefully! Aren't you excited to know that? I am.

So this fantastic news got me thinking about the world's seven continents and which I've seen. And that, in turn, kind of t-o'd me because what it came down to was three continents. Only three! With 41 countries under my belt, you'd think it would be a better fraction than 3/7ths. (And, I must admit, that it was just barely three... I couldn't think of any South American countries I'd visited - just Central! But then I remembered Venezuela (and one Cuh-Razy cab ride into Caracas with ABBA blasting and three blondes, including myself, in the back seat who were entertaining the suspicion that we'd never see our homes again). Venezuela, cha-cha-cha. And with Venezuela came the little light-up map rule. Ding! Continent visited..Check!)

North America: Check. (I live here. Still. Despite inclinations otherwise.)
South America: Check (Venezuela! Yessss!)
Europe: Check, check. Check. Check. Lots of checks.
Asia: On my way (Jordan! - DING!)
Africa: Arriving directly from Asia! (Egypt - DING!)
Antarctica: Are you crazy? I'm a beach person.
Australia: Maybe next year? The year after? Dunno.

5/7ths. 5/7ths ain't bad at all. Especially considering that I only have active plans to visit 6/7 (as you may have gathered from my list above.)

It never ceases to surprise me that California surprises me. There are lovely things and places hidden everywhere!

I began Saturday by sleeping in. It was fantastic, relaxing and much needed. I've finally hit a bit of a lull at work with my current project and this weekend was the first proper weekend I've had in three weeks. (Minus the four hours I worked.)

After I'd lounged around enough to satisfy my weary bones, I decided I'd had entirely enough of sleeping, sitting in my office chair and working, so I jumped in my jeep and headed once again to Benicia State Park. BSP is nothing wonderous or fantastical. But it is a great substitute for going to the actual beach when I don't feel like investing all day into a beach trip. BSP lies on the edge of the bay and offers it's patrons a bit of solitude and a running/walking/biking trail by the water. I normally bike it. But lately I've been into rollerblading so I thought I'd give the BSP pavement a try. At first I hestitated, because BSP's trail is not as well maintained as the Iron horse trail and rollerblades are a bit harder to naviagate pavement cracks and generally rough conditions with. But in my glee to go outside, I decided to just go for it. I should have listened to my hesitation. I didn't get further than the parking lot before I knew it was a mistake. It was the worst, rough, pock-marked asphault I could have chosen to blade on. Ugh. I pressed on and up the trail. After blading through several puddles (It's been raining quite hard here lately) and stumbling over badly cracked pavement repeatedly, I headed back to my jeep to put my shoes on and have a go at running the trail. But before I could put my shoes on, I noticed that the street I'd parked my car on was blissfully smooth and took off down it. The street, like the park trail, ran along the bay amongst some beautiful bay homes. On my trip I spotted several fantastic little spots - park benches with bay views and some meandering trails.

After finishing a good 40-minute blading session, I took myself back to a spot of interest  - the ninth-street boat launch - via Jeep. I had no idea there was such a thing as the ninth-street boat launch! It was fantastic. A great little park with a big old ship's anchor and a memorial plaque.

Being the inquisitive soul that I am, I headed down to the old anchor, passing several trucks with older gentlemen sitting in them, facing the sea, looking for all the world as if sitting in their trucks in that parking lot was part of their normal, daily routine. One chatted on a CB radio and another sat eating his lunch. Perfect old sea dogs.





When I arrived at the flags and anchor I found something that defied everything I'd gleaned about growing up in this area: THERE WAS A BEACH THERE! A proper little bay beach, complete with sand and water. FANTASTIC! Who woulda thunk it? It rocked my world.




I finished up the afternoon with a trip to the best darned hot dog shop in the whole world: Sac's Tasty Dog.



Pretty good day, eh? I thought so too, but I was far from finished with my adventuresome Saturday. I cleaned myself up and hopped on BART into the city.  Not long after I was at the San Francisco War Memorial Opera House and in possession of one Orchestra section ticket to see Swan Lake on opening night.

At this point, the hot dog had worn off so I headed down to the basement of the Opera house, where a hungry soul can find all manner of sustenance! I picked a tasty looking turkey sandwich and a bottle of water, paid my $13 (That's right, the sandwich was TEN dollars! And you thought concession stands at movie theaters were expensive!) and then I couldn't find a place to sit and eat. The tables were full. Dilemma!

I spotted an empty seat at the far side of the room at a table with an older Woman. She seemed very kind, so I asked if I might join her. I must say this. I adore that woman! She was lovely. Her name was Maude (and still is). She confided in me that she was 94 years old. That shocked me because, truly, she looked as if she were in her seventies. We sachatted for a while, which those of you who know me, is something I just don't do out of the blue like that. I must have reverted back to cruise ship hostess mode. Or maybe I just liked her immediately. Here's Maude in a nutshell (or rather, from a 15 minute conversation): Her husband died nine years ago of cancer. Before he died, they traveled the world together and even had a sailboat! She was quite proud of her travels. (As well she should be!) She has at least one grandchild, who is a ballerina and the principal dancer in a ballet opening soon in Walnut Creek at Lesher, which she told me to see on a Friday, and afterward to go and knock on the stage door and ask to see her granddaughter and tell her Maude sent me to say hello. She said her granddaughter would probably say to that "Oh, she's found another one!" Ha! Apparently Maude is a serial people-picker-upper.

I determined that when I am 94 I should love to be just like Maude. Full of spunk and passion and quick to speak her mind.

The ballet was, in a word, magnificent! There were a few minor stumbles and missed steps, but altogether a brilliant, theatrical and captivating production of a classic.

As I watched those dancers soar across the stage like doves, I thought to myself: How, how in the world do they do that? Pardon me, but I have a body too and mine doesn't fly. I tried. I broke my arm. (This probably relates somehow to my liking those Sac's tasty dogs) ...I can't make my leg into an extension of my soul, reaching for the heavens.

What is it about a beautifully done ballet that speaks to the very core of one's being? It quite literally tears the emotion from your center and out through your pours. It ripples through you as it leaves, making the skin tingle and commanding tears to fall from their ducts.

I ate a banana in the car on the way to the train station this morning. Once the fruit was gone, I was, of course, left with the peel. My first thought was of Mario exclaiming "hehe" gleefully as he plants banana peels on the racetrack on Mario Kart. My next thought (as any sane person's would be) was of finding a trash can. I parked on the fourth deck of the parking garage and couldn't seem to find one anywhere. Maybe I missed it. Maybe there aren't any in the parking garage. In any case, the lack of trash cans got me thinking about the London Underground system and an interesting experience I had thereon.

In 2005, my sister Kelly joined me on a repositioning cruise (Ships stay in one place generally for an entire season. Then they "reposition" to a new region. Repositioning cruises are generally very fun and involve many sea days, which are very relaxing!) from Fort Lauderdale to Copenhagen. One of the stops we made along the way was in Southampton, England. From the Southampton port, we walked to the nearby train station and rode the train into old London towne.


It was a very eventful day, packed with fun people, crazy experiences and loads of time riding trains. After taking the distance train from Southampton, we left the Waterloo station and proceeded to traipse around London by foot, not really knowing anything about the bus or tube systems.



By the time we needed to head back to Southampton we were knackered! We'd walked miles our feet were done. So we asked a nice, local shop boy what the best way to get to "the train station" was. He asked us "which train station" and the question pretty much dumbfounded us. There was more than one main train station??? The boy just laughed at us as we pulled out our tube map and decided that we had most definitely come into Waterloo station. Destination figured, he directed us to the nearest Tube station and instructed us on the proper line to take and zip, zip, we were on our way across London very quickly (not on foot!).


Once in the tube stations, we wanted to get rid of the trash we'd begun accumulating (water bottles, empty Godiva chocolatier bags, etc...) but we couldn't seem to find a "rubbish bin" anywhere! None in the tube station, none along the walkways in the tube stations and none in the main artery station, Waterloo. We were dumbfounded and a bit frustrated by this. We finally spotted a bin in a McDonalds and popped in to add our trash to the already overflowing rubbish bin. While we were waiting for our train back to Southampton we managed to ask a local why there weren't any bins anywhere in the station. He gave us that "Oh, you're Americans" look - a look comprised of pity, annoyance and resigned acceptance and replied "There aren't any bins in any stations because of the IRA bombings." He thought that was a sufficient answer, but instead of understanding, we gave him a fresh dumbfounded look and he, being a very proper and polite Englishman, continued "The Irish terrorist group. They hid bombs in the bins." The most recent of those attacks had been in 1991. But they'd been attacking since the 1800's.

Ah. Wow. We were a bit put off by this whole thing. It was all a bit surreal for two young Americans to take in. Terrorism had only truly come to us four years prior on 9/11, and even then we weren't directly affected by it. It was a sobering revelation to see a lifestyle that incorporated terrorist behavior as not only "having happened to us," but "will probably happen again." And so, not really having any other option, we did what the locals did. We were terrified by the idea of it and yet had to push on, move forward, carry our rubbish with us and take our train home.

Less than a week later, on board our ship on a sea day, we tuned in to the BBC, one of the few satellite television channels we received, to find that the tube stations, including the Piccadilly line (which we had ridden) had been bombed. What can one do in a situation like that? We were grateful to be safe. We were shocked and suspended in disbelief. We had walked those hallways, perhaps ridden trains with some of the people who had been killed in the blasts only days before. What are the words to express the feelings that come of something like that?

--
 I found a garbage can this morning and placed my banana peel in it. I was haunted by the memory of a tragedy and grateful to live in a place still blanketed in the innocence that comes from having never experienced the effects of terrorism. I was also left with the lingering thought: I pray it never happens here.

Yesterday afternoon at work I was hit with the inexplicable craving for a Quiche. This happens to me every so often (An inexplicable craving for something). I NEEDED a piece of quiche. Which struck me as odd considering that, for the most part, I don't like eating eggs. (Or Popcorn, or hot chocolate, the feel of suede or incapable people, which are not at all pertinent to Quiche, but since I was listing my dislikes I just kept going...) Make of that what you may, I knocked off of work surprisingly early, around 4pm (I've been getting to work between 7:30 and 8 this week! In the MORNING!) and proceeded straight to the grocery store (Love Trader Joe's!) to pick up my supplies (see below).

Are Quiches Italian? I think probably no. But I can pretend. In all honesty, they are, quite possibly French, in which case we should all watch the move Julie & Julia and say in a big voice "Bon Apetit!" ...On further reflection, strike that. I'm stuck on Italy, so we should watch Under the Tuscan Sun and say instead "Buon Apetito!"

But I digress.

Back to Trader Joe's: After spending a good ten minutes in the wine aisle, trying to figure out what makes a white wine "dry" (Disclaimer: I'm NOT a drinker of any kind of alcohol and therefore know nothing about it), I finally found one with a description that included the word "dry." Sold! One $6, massive bottle of Chardonnay later (which you'll find funny when you see in the recipe that all I need is a "splash" of wine.) And by massive, I mean truly and genuinely oversized. But the price was right and it was the only one that said "dry"!! And now it is sitting, opened, minus one very generous splash (I might not drink it, but I love cooking with it. Even though I'm allergic to it and I always get sinusy and groggy after eating meals cooked with Vino), in my fridge, where it will remain until I cook something else with it or pour it down the drain. Presto. Headed home, cooked up my masterpiece and it turned out like this:
















Voila! Che Belleza Quiche!  I am quite proud of it.
(PS: Don't tell anyone that Quiches are ridiculously easy to make).



And alas, I must report that in my gut, knowing that this was truly a French dish, I watched the film that arrived via Netflix: Les Choriste. It's French. It means "The Chorus." And it was a FABULOUS film. Absolutely charming and lovely. I highly recommend it.

So that's all for my in-denial-that-it-was-French-instead-of-Italian evening.



DIRECTIONS

Preheat oven to 425F
Brush melted butter over unbaked pie shell and refrigerate 30 minutes, or until filling is ready.
In large skillet, brown Italian sausage
When no longer pink, drain and set aside.
Add 2 TBLS of oil from sun dried tomato jar to skillet.  
Saute onion & garlic until translucent.
Add mushroom & sun-dried tomatoes, cook until mushrooms are tender.
Add a big splash of dry white wine.
 Add spinach and cook until spinach is wilted.
In a separate bowl, whisk together eggs, half & half, salt & pepper, and Italian seasoning.
Get butter brushed pie shell from fridge.
Sprinkle sausage evenly in the bottom of the pie shell.
 Evenly cover sausage with vegetable mixture.
Sprinkle Parmesan, Mozzarella and Provolone evenly over vegetables.
 Pour egg mixture over everything.
Bake in preheated oven for 10 minutes.
Turn oven down to 325F and bake for 25 more minutes or until crust is golden and filling is set.

Allow to set for 5 to 10 minutes before cutting. 
Quiches re-heat beautifully, so don't be afraid to cook ahead of time!


Enjoy!
Recipe from: Bakespace


NB: I don't like fungus (mushrooms) and didn't add any. And I added the cheeses on top of the eggs instead of on top of the vegetables... because I didn't read the recipe closely enough. But it didn't matter. Also, I think next time I will add diced bell pepper and possibly beat in some shredded potato with the egg batter (for texture - I don't like eating eggs, you remember, so an entire mouthful of fluffy eggs... Well, I'd rather have potato mixed in). - C

Did you really think I'd stay away until February?  ;)

Have you ever had a piece of knowledge embedded into your memory bank that, when happened upon, makes you smile? It makes you elated, giddy, the shivery kind of happy that tickles your whole body. Of course you have. And that is how I feel right now. Like I have an awesome secret tucked away in the corner of my mind that is just aching to get out, stretch it's legs and make itself known to the world! Except in this case, it's not a secret at all. It's my happy thought. During the chaos of these recent days at work I can take it out and think about it and mellow the work stress away. I'll share it with you. Are you ready?

*Whispered*
ROME
Or, in a single word: Vacatioooooonnnnnnnn........ (It's better if you say it slowly. Obviously)
And yes, I am going to the Middle East too (yay!), but Rome is my personal epiphany.

That's it. All it takes to make me grin from ear to ear like a slap happy little nitwit. That place makes me giggle like a schoolgirl with delight. I wish I knew all of the reasons why. But then again, if I knew all of the reasons why, it probably wouldn't be quite so magical for me. Or maybe it would.

I've always felt a pull, a draw to Rome. Something inviting me there, beckoning me to behold. Ever since I opened that history book in Mr. LaRue's sixth grade class to the section on Rome and saw, in brilliant color, photos of marble busts, gold jewelry, the Colosseum and ancient textured walls. It was entrancing and I was enthralled with it. I even dressed a Barbie up like a Roman woman and had my Dad help me create a Roman chariot for my barbie horse to pull for a history assignment.
Okay, so this is NOT my Roman Barbie and Chariot. I googled Roman barbie and came back with this Roman Holiday (yes, like the movie!) Barbie. Pretty cool huh? My parents have a picture of my barbie creation somewhere... but it's in a closet... in the frozen north... in a box with a gazillion other photos... and it's not digital! Le Sigh. (Or since we are going for Italy: a sospirare.)

When finally I was able to visit Rome for the first time earlier this year, it did not disappoint! (as you might have guessed from my enthusiasm for the place) Instead, it renewed and reinvigorated my love for it. Have you ever had a magical day? Or three? A small part of your time on this earth where everything worked in your favor? The stars were aligned (if you believe in that sort of thing) and Lady Luck was your best friend? That happened to me in Rome. And like any respectable addict would, I want to go back for more! I'm hooked! Three days of being stopped in the streets by Italian men and asked for my phone number, given a bottle of wine, eating amazing pasta and Gelato, getting reamed out by a middle-aged Italian woman for running across the street in front of an ambulance (Yes, I add that to my list of good fortune because, hey, it happened in Italy. It was exciting. And ridiculous. And feeling the wrath of an Italian woman is just so quintessentially Italian!)

I've heard of many people feeling the same way about Paris.

"America is my country but Paris is my hometown" (Gertrude Stein)

Ditto for me. Except replace Paris with Rome (obviously).

I do like Paris quite a bit too, in case you were curious.

Just for now, I have a secret. I'll keep it in my pocket close to my heart and take it out to look at it when there's no one around.

What's your happy secret? Don't worry, I won't tell.

I may not post much for the next few weeks. I'm digging into two very massive projects at work which will require most of my time (including eating, sleeping and playing time). The upside of this madness is that it will pay for my upcoming trips in April (yay!) and June. If I don't resurface by February it's because I've joined the circus.

Although if you ask me very interesting questions, I'll have no choice but to post answers.

I did it.
I booked my tour, hotels and most of my flights (save one... because I really can't decide what to do after Cairo). And with the new year, my four and a half month countdown is so real it's practically screaming at me. I'm so excited I can barely keep my toe tapping to a minimum at work. Now I strap in, buckle up, bear down. Now I scrimp and save and cut out the frivolity in my budgeting so that I can actually go on this trip comfortably. Over-prepare now. Then go with the flow.

Now the weight of what I've done sets in. It shocks me: I've really just decided to go to specific places, I've pinned down the dream vacation (this year's)... No more lazy days of wondering where I'll go and what I'll do when I get there. No more TripAdvisor top 10 lists (and thereafter maniacal bouts of research on those places). There is something more specific in the air now. Rome, Jordan. Egypt... (And maybe Naples, Capri, Pompeii too?)

But what of Marrakesh, Casablanca, Tangier? Athens, Cyprus, Crete? Capetown, Tel Aviv, Sydney, Jerusalem, Bali, Istanbul? What happened to sailing around the Caribbean in a 40-foot sailboat? What about San Juan?

These un-traveled-to places taunt me. They whisper mean things to me, much like a Mother who wants a visit: "Why aren't you coming here this year? Why aren't you here now? How could you think to pass us over like that? And just how much longer do you think you can keep up these crazy, unbridled travels before you stop?" I just smile back at them and say "You don't know me at all do you?... Well, except you, San Juan, my love." And I wink at San Juan. He smiles back that dark and devastatingly addictive tropical smile. I waver and think to run back to him. But only for a second.

And then we all sit quietly together in my head. Hands folded neatly in laps, feet tapping the floor.

Because the elephant in the room for all of us is that they don't know me. And I don't know them. Not yet. Perhaps not this year. But in the years to come, who knows? And anyway, places don't know people. Places don't care about people, they only care about being the ever-changing yet always true to itself place that they are. But people can know places, and I will know those places, and that is my point.

Just for now, wait. Wait. I'll be there soon. And I'm not remorseful.