Health & Safety

In Britain, almost every inch of the rail network is protected by security fencing, and the few level crossings that do remain are equipped either with gates or automatic barriers and warning bells - which is probably just as well, with train speeds of anything between 40mph and 75mph even on rural lines.

Compare this with the railway on Vancouver Island. Here, the trains (well, the train anyway) venture out onto the streets without a thought. Most, but not all, road crossings have warning lights - like at this road junction close to Nanaimo city centre.

Audible warning of the train's arrival takes the form of ear-piercing air horns on the roof of the train - and as the train passes through towns like Nanaimo, with road crossings every few hundred metres, the air horns are pretty much in constant use. Loud? Well, they can often be heard four miles away on Gabriola Island!

Now, in Britain, the driver has the extra benefit of audible warnings in the cab at the approach to every signal and crossing. A bell rings if it's clear to proceed; a buzzer sounds if the signal's at caution - and if it's at red, most trains will automatically stop.

I have to assume that there's no equivalent system on Vancouver Island. Why? Because health and safety clearly dictates that the driver (sorry, engineer) wears ear defenders to protect himself from the power of the air horns!

Crop security

I'm always being told that growing special crops on Gabriola requires special security measures. So these are the security measures. 
 

You can't see what I'm growing, can you?

If You Break the Handle on a Washing Machine . . .

If you break a handle on a washing machine then you will inevitably run out of underwear . . .

Which means you will have to purchase a few more pairs of underwear . . .

This means that you will have to drive through several roundabouts in rush hour . . .

Which will put both you and the Engineer in a very bad mood . . .

So that when you get to the underwear store you decide that the Engineer should go get some fries at McDonalds for the ride home . .  .

And the Engineer will go to McDonalds near dinner time when it is really busy . . .

Because this is France there is only one person working the till while 15 people stand behind the counter doing random jobs  . . . .

This will put the Engineer in a bad mood, especially as the family if front (all 6) insist on standing at the counter together and the Engineer keeps getting hit by a balloon . . .

So that when he does finally get his order he just wants to leave . . . .

Which means he gets in the car, and drives forward a bit forcefully . . . .

So that he drives over a concrete 'garden/hole' that is supposed to have a tree so that people don't drive into the hole, except that this one doesn't.

Those are all the steps that led to this moment.  If only I hadn't ripped the handle off the door of the washing machine.  We would have saved 160 Euros

We were stuck.  And we needed a tow truck.  So at McDonald's busiest time, the lovely manager called us a tow truck (a process so long it could only be French) and the Engineer and I waited in our car.  Every person who walked past us just shook their heads and shrugged.

Finally the tow truck arrived.  The Engineer and I both glanced at each other and tried not to laugh.  Tow trucks in France are made for giants.

This is the biggest tow truck I have ever seen!

The driver took one look at the car and said 'Oeuff' - not as in 'egg' but as in 'how the hell did you do that?".  Sort of the same noise the washing machine man said when he saw our door.

It took no time at all to get off.  Well, enough time for the Engineer to get a filet au poisson meal and eat fries.

So this was our little adventure.  The most expensive fries ever at a whopping 160 Euros.

Our trip is adding up in accidents.

50 Euros for the exploding stove in Tuscany
160 Euros for the car
? Euros for the washing machine

Guess there will be no hot air ballooning . . . .

How to Stock a French Fridge

I recently opened our fridge (as one does) and realized how amazingly French it looked (as it should in France).

What does it look like?

Like this:

 - Five bottles of wine ranging from a Blanquette (apparently the forefather of Champagne), to a white to two roses.

- A row of cheese. Creamy, runny, soft, smelly cheese.   and butter

- Twelve containers of Activia (so that one can process all the wine and cheese).  

In French grocery stores, the Engineer and I have been pleasantly surprised to find the largest selection of Activia we have ever seen.  They have so many flavours here that discovering what new Activia flavours exist has replaced our interest in what different things McDonald's has (a hamburger with dijon mustard and a sundae with pear).

All the Activia has different price points as well.  This baffles us.  Is one flavour more expensive than another?  Apparently.  There is lemon, cherry, fig, prune, pear, cereal, blackberry, watermelon, peach - the list goes on.

Clearly it's not just the Engineer and myself who need help with digestion.  When your nation is built on a diet of cheese, wine and fatty saucisson what else would you expect but the largest variety of poop yogurt?

My stomach has been holding up very well considering how ill I was in Italy.  I have been eating cheese for a week.  I think my butt is now made of cheese.  

We are in the lovliest little house which has made it practically impossible to leave.  So we eat here.  In our teeny little patio.

Which is super considering I need to do my cheese dance in private.

I know you can't tell - but I am dancing.

So on top of the fact my butt is starting to resemble brie, my arms are becoming croissants.

Every morning I walk through the quiet stone streets of Caunes de Minevois, saying 'Bonjour!' to those that I pass, and make my way to our favourite boulangerie.  This is where I discovered that there is 'plain croissant' and 'croissant beurre'.  Isn't a croissant already butter?  So is this croissant extra butter?

Whatever it is, it is delicious.  As is her pain au chocolate, almond croissant, baguettes, and the other myriad of bread I choose each morning.

I know that French Women don't get fat, but us Canucks do.  I have been doing my little regime with my bands in the morning. Much to the amusement of the French women who don't get fat.  'Hoh hoh hoh - silly Canadienne fille with her cellulite - too bad she iz not Francais - hoh hoh hoh'

Excuse me. Cassoulet is calling

Well dressing

You know how it is. Sometimes you just can't be bothered to wash the dishes, the clothes - or yourself - reckoning, quite naturally, that you'll do it all in the morning. You tell yourself you'll feel much more energised tomorrow. That's fine, so long as you don't wake up to find that there's no water in the morning. 

This happens fairly regularly on Gabriola - every time the power is out in fact. No power = no pump = no water from the well. Most of us are prepared for that - and in any event, what's the point of having water if there's no power to run the washing machine or dishwasher? But somehow yesterday was different. The bedroom clock told me it was 7.30 - which, in itself, was a sign that everything, power wise, was hunky dory. Except that there was no water in the bathroom. That's not good, when your water supply depends on a pump to lift the stuff from a 40 ft well. 

Since buying our island home, we always new there was a pump somewhere in the shed - but there had never been the need to find it, or indeed to check that it was working. After all, if there is water in the tap, the pump is working, ok? Visit the shed. Unwrap the winter insulation from the pump. It looks like a pump - what did you expect?  Previous owner was fastidious in keeping instruction books - and receipts - for everything he bought, so within minutes I was able to go through the checklist of possible faults in the 1997 instruction manual. 

Carry out all of the problem solving tests. Nothing. The pump was, sadly, deceased. I suppose 13 years is a reasonable life for a pump that cost $279 in 1997. But what's it going to cost to replace it?  13 years of inflation? I brace myself and go off in search of a new one.  I take the 1997 instruction manual with me, to make sure that it`s compatible. 

Now, in a country where a high proportion of homes do not have mains water, it`s not too difficult to find a new pump for your well. Home Depot (or B&Q to those of you in the the UK) sells them; even Canadian Tire (a sort of overgrown Halfords superstore) sells them. The problem is, they don`t employ people who are sufficiently clued up to intelligently answer questions about them. But Rona does - and Rona has a pump in stock that looks suspiciously like the old one. An intelligent life form offers to open the box and let me check the installation instructions. I take the 1997 manual out of my back pocket. Not only are the diagrams identical, the words are too - this is the same pump that Peter bought from Sears in 1997 for $279!  Today`s price? A snip at $269!! That`s $10 less than it was 13 years ago!!!

With an identical pump, replacement is relatively simple. Not totally, of course - that would be too much to expect. The rubber(ish) hoses are still intact - and, with a quick dip in hot water, they slide readily off the galvanised steel connectors. The problem is, the connectors have been eaten away by 13 years of immerson in groundwater and, inevitably, they look as though they will disintegrate under the pressure of a new pump.  I replace the two that have visible signs of corrosion and fit the new pump. Bingo! I prime the pump and it`s soon delivering the goods at the recommended 25 psi. Then the third connector gives up the ghost and delivers a mighty shower that removes the cobwebs from inside the shed roof.

I`ve dried out now; the washing machine has completed its cycle; the dishwasher is merrily buzzing away, and all is well with the world. I have my well pump back - for less than it cost 13 years ago. The only difference - it`s made in Mexico now, not Ontario.

The Magic of Provence

Sadly, when traveling you start losing your wonderment and amazement.  When I came to England when I was 19, I was enthralled with the moss that grew out of stone fences thinking Jane Austen had walked past the same moss.  Weird, I know.  But then I got used to it.  Old shmold.

In Thailand I sat on an Elephant’s head. Yup, that’s just normal.

I am always in search of rediscovering that childlike enthusiasm.  

In Rome, I was constantly amazed that we were walking in the footsteps of Julius Caesar and Mark Anthony (thank you HBO for nice visuals). 

Then I got used to things.  Oh, another medieval village?  Yeah, yeah. In fact, the Engineer and I are so used to things coming from the 1500’s that when someone told us that the new façade of a church dated from the 19^th century, we were like:  big deal.  And yet, we feel pretty cool in Canada when something is from 1888.

Anyhoo, the point is how to recover a sense of wonder.  The Engineer and I are now in Provence.  Some people pick destinations for the tourist sites, others for nature, some for proximity to the beach. What do I choose?  I pretty place to stay.  I have this obsession with the prefect room and the perfect view.  Something about being surrounded by all things charming brings out the writer in me. And I must say, it works a treat.

So here we are in a tiny town called Barjac, near(ish) the Cote Rhone and Avignon.  By near, I mean an hour drive away.  I chose it because I found an adorable bed and breakfast called ‘Laurier des Roses’.  As the Engineer and I drove further and further away from the English tourist and through winding fields, I wondered where in the hell was I leading us?

We passed not so pretty villages full of factories and power lines.  Then we winded some more, and more and more.  Until finally, we came upon this tiny little village that Rick Steves doesn’t include in his book.  Barjac.

From the outside, Barjac is pretty.  It has red tiled roofs and brownish coloured buildings.  However, when you are on the inside it seems to magically transform.

Firstly, after driving around the teeny narrow streets trying to find out bed and breakfast, we came upon the Lauriers des Roses.  And I said, ‘YES’.  I loved it immediately.  I mean it’s a house built in the 16^th century with a thick, winding stone stairwell leading to our room.  My window looks upon pink blossoms and other medieval buildings. Plus we are surrounded by church bells that seem to dong whenever they like. 

I could feel the wonder coming back.

The stone that appears brown from the road is whiter up close.  So that the streets and buildings glow slightly and look as though the town is painted in seashell.  

Our hosts are lovely, complete with a Jack Russell named Sam (although he heartbreakingly passed away on our last day from eating poison idiots set out for cats).  Our breakfast is buttery croissants, gorgeous pain (Jean-Claude finds us a new type of pain everyday) and his homemade confitures (which are the best tasting jams I have ever eaten). 

Poor Little Sam

The bells are ringing right now.  We need more bells in Vancouver.

It’s pretty and sweet and perfectly lovely.  I can drink rose and stumble down lanes of seashell cobblestone.  I can pour creamy poivre sauce on my steak and frites.  I can start every meal with kir.  What is not to like in France?

But even though the streets are old and pretty, I walk through them as if that was normal.  So last night, in a hunt for internet (our stone walls are too thick for wifi!), I sat on the stone steps of a café in the night air.  For some reason I was quite warm and felt completely at ease, even though the French people passing kept asking if I was ‘froid’ and staring at me curiously.

The house across the way was the kind you think of when you see France:  white walls, robin’s egg blue shutters, window boxes full of flowers and the air smelled of spring.  Was that wonder creeping in?

As I typed, on such a modern device, I couldn’t help but think of the ‘ghosts’

 walking past me:  peasant women bartering for the best quality food for their children, priests and bishops making their way to the church, soldiers, knights, ladies in their finery. 

Walking back to the B&B, the streets glowed in the streetlight, and the moon was a perfect sliver hanging in the sky.  

I stopped and looked at our 16^th century ‘home’ and was, much to my delight, in wonder.  I have to remind myself where I would be walking if I were at home. And obviously there is always something amazing in Vancouver or New York, but not this.  Not a crescent moon winking over a sleeping medieval village.  My view will soon return to mountains or the brownstone across the street.  So I took an ‘Alec Baldwin’ snapshot to remember the moment and the sense of wonderment, that does still exist, albeit deep down in my sarcastic and grown-up mind.

Five Towns. Hmmm, It Sounds Nicer in Italian

Besides Venice, the other place that I simply had to see in Italy was Cinque Terre.  I had seen a picture of it some years ago and just knew I had to visit the candy-coloured coastal towns nestled on the top of five little hills.  Except the picture I had seen was actually the Amalfi Coast.  Whoops.

Regardless, I had heard amazing things about Cinque Terre and amazing it was.

The Engineer and I snickered at the passing German tourists, complete with their walking sticks and hiking boots, thinking that the ‘hikes’ between all the villages were nothing compared to the mountain hikes of British Columbia.  

Not that we actually hike those either.

Walking along the graffitied via dell’amore, we barely broke into a sweat (and that was only because of the hot Italian spring sun).  So we had no idea why these people came with their walking sticks.

Then we walked from Manarolo to Corniglia.  Okay, this was a bit more ‘up down’ action, but still didn’t warrant the walking stick.  Or hiking shoes for that matter.

We spent a lovely afternoon in Vernazza, my favorite of the five villages.  Watching the sun set over the water, drinking a glass of white wine, listening to the three nonna’s chatter away.  The town was utterly charming.

Time to head back.

When one decides to do something in Italy, one should not be of the Type A personality.  We assumed - and yes, assuming is wrong - that trains would be running between the five towns more than once an hour.  Nope.  Then we thought that the clever little enviro-buses strung the towns together.  Nope.  They were only for driving from the bottom to the top of each town.

Hmmmmm. 

Choice was to wait for an hour or simply start walking towards Manarolo.  Let’s walk. 

Not a clever choice.

The path between Vernazza and Corniglio is less like a leisurely stroll along the sea, and more like the Grouse Grind.  That is, UPHILL. 

All right, now we got the walking sticks. 

So here we are, walking as fast as possible to the next town, to beat the setting sun, and dripping with copious amounts of sweat.  I kept having to stop.  The Engineer told me if old German ladies could do this, then so could I.  I wanted to punch him.

By this time the path was deserted, and the sky was almost black.  So we were crawling our way through olive groves, guessing that we were on the right path and feeling out stairs.  Sometimes I fathom at our combined intelligence.

It took us a while longer than usual because someome had to keep stopping and taking pictures.

Eventually, the Engineer yelled at me to stop.

We did eventually make it to Corniglia.  One and a half hours later. And then watched as our train snaked its way along the coast far below us. 

So we had to wait another hour for a train anyways.  The path to Manorolo is not hard, but it was pitch black.  Definitely not a smart idea – those waves crashing on the rocks below are not a comforting thought.

We ate.  FAST.  And then raced down 365 stairs to the train station.  In the dark.  I was leaping down stairs, in the dark, in my flip-flops. SMRT.  

We made it!  And as we got on the train, I looked up at the path we had just flown down, congratulating myself on not dying.

The Engineer and I agreed not to make fun of the walking stick hikers.  We also agreed not to walk those paths again and stick to the train schedule. 

As we left Cinque Terre, I realized that the large national park was a host of hiking trails.  OH I GET IT, I thought, people are hiking in the mountains.  See?  This is what happens when you don’t have Rick Steves.  You miss out on what is surrounding you and learn the hard way that trains only run once an hour.

God's Hotel

After our daylong non-adventure, the Engineer and I were forced to call it a night in San Remo.  Like Mary and Joseph (except not at all), most of the inns were full due to a poker tournament at the local casino and we were sadly turned away.

Except at Villa de Maria.  An old rambling mansion that had more rooms than furniture and high enough ceilings to warrant another floor (if this was Vancouver).  We were led up a winding staircase, down a long hall that was lined with, and I am not kidding, about 60 framed Jesus faces.  From an needle pointed Jesus face, to serene paintings of the Madonna and baby Jesus, to Jesus dead on the cross, to ones that stare into your soul, we quickly realized we were perhaps more like Mary and Joseph than we originally thought.

Outside our room was a carved statue of the Madonna in front of a poster that listed every Pope since there ever was a pope.  Above our bed, there was a small-framed painting of a mother and child.  Not necessarily Mary and Jesus, but the implication was definitely there.

I was slightly confused.

Who wouldn’t be?

I mean I know this is Italy and all, but an actual hotel whose theme is Jesus?  I was definitely used to seeing little Mary shrines on nearly every corner, but in my actual hotel room?

Anyways, the Engineer, being sick, put himself straight to bed while I headed off in search of the train station and tickets. 

As I left God behind, I wandered the candy coloured streets of San Remo, that were filled with, ironically, gamblers and their ‘chip bunnies’ – Italian women wearing ridiculously high heels that impeded their ability to walk with dark roots and gobs of make-up.  Quite the contrast from God’s hotel.

After a half an hour of rambling, I located the station and went to buy the tickets.  I chose the automatic machine because they are so much better than talking broken (read: non speaking) Italian. 

The Engineer and I love these ticket machines. They have lots in common with the Bancomats.  The common thread?  They both give you the option of reading instructions in English but revert back to Italian halfway through the transaction.  Therefore, when I tried to purchase my Nice tickets, there was some sort of sentence telling me the reason I wasn’t able to.

I found out that there was a strike in France.  The Engineer and I have just both finished reading ‘A Year in the Merde’ where the protagonist (an Englishman) must learn that the French have strikes practically everyday.  Therefore, I wasn’t surprised.

There was only one ticket out of Italy and that was at 9:00 in the morning.  Good thing we got so lost earlier, otherwise I would have been even more mad if we weren’t able to catch a train that day.

Back to God’s hotel.  Not before stopping and picking up some (don’t hate me) Chinese take-away.  My last meal in Italy and I ate Chinese food.  I was just so curious what the Italy take on Chinese food would be.  That and I was sick of dealing with mediocre pasta and didn’t want to search for a perfect restaurant.

Then bed.  Seven hours of driving to nowhere really tires out a girl.

Every time I moved in bed, the headboard made a loud double knock against the wall.  I would wake up in a panic thinking God was knocking at my door.  The Engineer, in his comatose state, would look at me blearily and tell me to ‘shut up’. 

This clearly was not the honeymoon suite. I mean not only does a newly married couple have to deal with Mary and baby Jesus judging them, but also the headboards are so loud that the entire hotel would be judging them.

I went to take a shower only to discover that not only did the bath not have a shower curtain, but that there were four taps and only a hand-held nozzle. Hmmmmm. 

Well, I thought I could at least bathe myself but when I turned on the mix of four taps (the combination to turn on hot water and some pressure) I flicked on the ‘shower’ nozzle.  The ‘shower’ nozzle sprinkled out some of the water half-heartedly. 

I started to laugh.  The Engineer came to check my progress and help me attempt to get at least my hair washed.  This combined effort worked eventually.  It was a ballet act of turning the various knobs to get the best hot water/pressure ratio and then rubbing the nozzle against my scalp to get my hair wet. 

Then came the towel.  I can only compare this towel to the thin sheet of fabric one uses to cover themselves at the doctor’s office.

Let me remind you this hotel was three stars and 100 Euro a night.  All of the other places we stayed, including scary hotel in Florence, came with nice fluffy bath towels and fully running water.

I ran downstairs for breakfast, past rambling hallways, random empty rooms full of gold furniture, and corners that were shrine-like with angel candles and what appeared to be Christmas decorations, for a cappuccino and coco-puffs.  My view was an orange tree.  Which is always a treat.

We left God’s hotel, not before bumping into, and again I am not kidding, a priest.  And with God’s hotel, San Remo and Italy.

Not an ideal last day in Italy, but a random, quirky and unexpected one.  Much like Italy itself.

Arrivederci Italy.  Te Amo.

The Day of Non-Adventure

The Engineer and I set off from a sunny Manarolo, past the winding hills and cliffs of Cinque Terre.  This was absolutely stunning – we could see sparkling blue water as far as the eye could see, and then the tiny villages of Vernazze, Corniglia, and Monterosso far below – making them appear like teeny towns made up of jujubes and cupcakes. 

I couldn’t really look though because I was driving and the road narrow and winding. The Engineer told me to honk when I approached a bend to warn oncoming cars.  I took to tooting my horn almost all the time, warranting strange looks from passing vehicles. 

Better to be safe than sorry right?

Then three hours to Barolo.  Upon arrival, we sadly found out that the hot air balloon ride we had booked was cancelled due to weather – they were expecting a wind and rain front.  I looked up at the clear blue sky and cursed it.

I decided to at least check out the tiny village and very cool looking castle.  To add disappointment to an already disappointing day, the castle was closed due to refurbishment (I think – the narrow streets were filled with construction sites complete with hollering Italian men who watched me scramble up a pile of sand to reach the castle door).  In fact, the whole town seemed to be closed for refurbishment.  And what wasn’t closed for construction was simply closed.  I looked at my watch.  Of course, magic Italy time of THE AFTERNOON. 

I got back into the car, with the sleeping Engineer, and made an executive decision.  What does one do when Italian plans fall through, nothing is open and there is no way of finding our bed and breakfast?  Go to France.

Another three-hour drive, this time one big guess and 40 Euros in toll roads, took us back down to the coast and the port from which to leave Italy (on the way it did start to rain, and the countryside wasn’t ideal for looking upon from a hot air balloon – so my disappointment was mollified). 

Unfortunately we had no map.

I only knew that our car rental place was supposedly near the rail station.  After a half hour of crawling traffic and weird roundabouts, we located the station.

But Avis was nowhere nearby.  Thanks to some taxi drivers, we think we figured it out. 

After nearly two hours of driving in circles (including a narrow road in which I scraped the passenger side of the car and cursed Italy), asking directions numerous times, we FINALLY located Avis.  It only had its name on one side of the sign.  So we had been passing it over and over again, but reading the wrong side of the sign.  Only in Italy.

Luckily for me, there was already a scrape on the passenger side so she didn’t notice when she checked us in.  Score one Sarah!

By this time, our hopes of jumping on a train to Nice were dashed and we were sentenced to a night in this weird beach town.

However, a calming walk and some gelato warmed my heart again and I came to terms with the fact that the day wasn’t really wasted.  I saw lots of Italian countryside and got one more night of eating gelato.

Gelato, I have learned, makes everything better.

Ciao!

In Search of the Perfect Italian Meal

I assumed that when I arrived in Italy two and a bit weeks ago, that I would be eating plates of delicious pasta, swallowing the best wine, and licking the creamiest gelato. 

Well, I got two out of three, so I guess that’s not bad.

I am shocked, saddened, and disappointed by the amount of mediocre, lackluster meals I have had in Italy.

Aren’t I in the land of food and people named Mario kissing their fingers saying ‘Delizioso!’?

No.

Let’s start with Rome.   Okay, we had our best pizza here.  Which is not surprising.  Margarita is the way to go here, with the taste of sun-ripened tomatoes being a perfect compliment to fresh mozzarella.  The surprising thing was that we had this pizza facing the Coliseum.  According to guidebooks, any restaurant facing a tourist trap will be terrible.

Then we had dinner.  My pasta carbonara was only so-so and my tiramisu abysmal.  And we were fairly certain the waiter did something to our food.

Thanks to my tour guide, we went to an amazing place for lunch where I had homemade linguini. 

Oh homemade pasta.  How I love thee.  The texture, the taste, the freshness.  SO GOOD.

I must sadly report that I didn’t find homemade pasta again until my second-last night in Italy.

Overlooking Manarolo and the sea, the Engineer and I ate on the patio at sunset – totally amazing.  Billy’s Trattoria was a happy surprise.  And one I wish we had discovered on our first day in Cinque Terre.  Not only was the view breathtaking, but also the food was AMAZING!  Not to mention our hilarious, and oh-so-Italian waiter who scared the seagulls away by flapping his arms and making his own seagull noises.  He also would come to each table bearing a live lobster so they could see special #2. 

I asked what ‘Billy’s Linguine’ was.  He proudly told me it was a delicious blend of shrimps, pine nuts and PEPPERONI. This last word was said with gusto.

So we ordered it.  Along with stuffed mussels and a piccolo piece of white grilled fish.

Pepperoni turned out to be peppers.  But he was definitely right about the delicious part.  Again, the pasta was homemade so immediately it was amazing.  Then the sauce was lovely and not-overly-oily.  The shrimps where fresh and scrumptious, and the pepperoni a happy treat of much needed vegetables. 

As we watched the Italian sun set over Manarolo, I happily drank my Cinque Terre white wine and said my farewell to this amazing country. 

But back to the food.  Clearly in Tuscany we also had great food.  Florence was home of the wild boar paparadelle and Chianti beef that I vow to make when I return to Canada.  It was also home of the BEST tiramisu I have ever tasted.

In Chianti, Franca, my new found Italian momma, made us risotto so good I had three helpings and strawberry zignliona (I always forget how to say/spell it) that brought happy tears to my eyes.  Too bad I also got so sick.

I forced myself to eat one last meal in Tuscany that consisted of amazing amazing amazing soup (that I think was white bean and garlic).  But I threw it up on the side of the road.  And in Franca’s bushes.

Our food in Venice makes me shudder, not that it was bad, but I was so sick that now when I think of it still makes me nauseous.  Our meals in Cinque Terre were overly oily and the seafood left me with an odd taste in my mouth that makes me wonder just how fresh it was.

So sad.

 At least I can comfort myself in knowing that we have a huge Italian population in both Vancouver and New York.  Heck , I live in Brooklyn!  So good Italian food is on my doorstep all the time.

The one food that was never ever a disappointment was gelato.

Oh gelato.  How I love thee.  I mean I really really do. God.  It is so good.  We had gelato everyday.  Something that my ass if very well aware of.

I guess I am just sad that not every meal made me weep at its goodness.  But then if it did, I wouldn’t appreciate the good ones right?  I also wouldn’t appreciate just how good I have it in Brooklyn.  Fragole, here I come!

Too bad I won't have the Italian sunset to go with it.