Gigayacht! Curing Seasickness £100m At A Time

I often have luxury fantasies about tooling around on a yacht, wind whipping through my hair a la Grace Kelly and waiting for Truman Capote to ask permission to board.  But, alas, your Miss Expatria steps one sandal-clad foot on any sea-faring vessel and lunch makes a spectacular return.  I’m resigned to a life of waving from the shore as the cabana boy brings me another beverage.  But, such are the sacrifices of life, I suppose.

I know next to nothing about boats, so I was surprised to find recently that your run-of-the-mill yachts are not enough for the discerning weekend mariner anymore - there are also megayachts, which is a term reserved for private vessels more than 200 feet long.  This is more than enough to qualify for the Superyacht Society, for which the requirements are measly 82-foot yachts.

MEGAYACHTS. Fly your flag of convenience proudly as you drift around the Mediterranean with your fellow fat cats and playthings on board.

Just when I thought a day out on the open seas couldn’t get any more luxe, I find there’s something called a gigayacht.

GIGAYACHT.

A gigayacht has only the bare essentials - a tennis court, pool and five accommodation decks including a main saloon, dining room, library, cinema, spa and fitness area.

You can have a garden on board. It has LAND on it. This boat is so big, it can carry on its aft deck “two 45ft motor yachts, as well as space for two 27ft sailing yachts, two cars and water-toys including six jetskis,” according to this “article” in the Daily Mail.

And, you can sail around willy-nilly for FIVE FRICKING YEARS without needing to refuel.

Seriously, now. Come on. At one point does a yacht become a cruise ship?

The good news is, though, that there’s no way that thing is going to pitch and yaw, or whatever they say for a boat that’s being tossed around like a bath toy.  Perhaps the gigayacht is the answer to my horrid seasickness!  Oh, the problems that have been solved in my life, simply due to luxury.

I’m Thoroughly Amused.

I have been hating on the New York Times recently.  Everything I’ve read in the last year or so just strikes me as too, too precious and white collar for my tastes.  Granted, they are writing for a particular demographic; but as they say, there are 8 million stories in the naked city, and it’s be nice if the Newspaper of Record would write about them.

I just read one of them, and it made me laugh - if only because it’s nice to see someone embracing their obsessions, as I have bene known to do on more than one occasion.  (Go on!  Ask me about Watergate!)

Anyway, Dan Glickman told Joan Raymond some amusing anecdotes about his obsession with flying, airplanes and such, and I encourage you to have a chuckle at Mr. Glickman’s expense.  If anything, it shows me he is much more of an actual human being than his completely crap predecessor.

A Stone By Any Other Name

I’ve been following Vincenzo and Leo’s progress as they work in their garden, as you’ve seen in some earlier photos.  I have no doubt that millions of homeowners in the northern hemisphere are doing similar projects in their own gardens and terraces.  However,  an errant clunk or thump from the tip of the spade at Leo and Vincenzo’s house can mean anything from a piece of stubborn rock to a Roman sarcophogus.  Who’s to say?

Their home is located on Roman ruins; the existing structures date back to the Renaissance.  The house to the left was the main palazzo; Leo and Vincenzo’s house were the stables; the neighbors to the right live in the former servants’ quarters.  Those neighbors recently found a door in the basement that leads to an enormous room, most likely used as a storage area for pantry goods.  This room is old - OLDE - but the Belle Arti of Rome, who’s in charge of looking into such things, have not been granted access to the home to investigate further.  The old couple that lives there won’t let them past the front door.

Now, onto Vince and Leo’s house.

You might remember this photo, taken a few weeks ago.

They recently moved that enormous rosemary bush seen in the lower right hand corner, to in front of the tree that in this picture is to the right of the steps.  While digging up the bush, they found:

Leo thinks this marble is “only” from the 1800s.  They also unearthed:

This would be the base of a column dating back to the Roman era.  It was underneath the rosemary bush.  Now, this portion of the garden looks like this:

The Roman column base is in the foreground, with the rosemary bush in front of the tree back there.

I’m all excited about this discovery - but Leo and Vincnzo, two Capricorns if there ever were, take it all in stride during our early evening cocktail:

Saturday Photo Post: My Rome

This is the building to the left of Termini train station, if you’re facing the architecturally fascist facade.  The stormy sky broke for a minute and shed some serious light on it.  No one seemed to notice it but me! 

This is where Marco takes me after he picks me up at the train station.  I always have a latte macchiato and a tramezzino.  We sit and chat and look at the Colosseum and smoke cigarettes and get caught up on everything.  My time in Rome does not start until after we leave this bar.

Marco showing the proper way to drink from the city’s water fountains.

This is where Vincenzo and I take Pepino sometimes on his walks.  It’s a little park that’s never crowded.  The center of it has a secluded little sitting area; this is the entrance to that area.

This is the little path we take from one side of the aquaduct to the other, to get to that park.  It cuts through someone’s property and I’m not even sure it has a name.  It takes you from Ye Oldeste Roma to a neighborhood of modern-ish apartment buildings and stores and such.  It’s quite strange, like moving through another dimension.  I can’t think of two bordering neighborhoods that are more different than these.

This is my founatin in my piazza - Piazza Madonna di Monti, off via dei Serpenti behind via Cavour (yes, I do make it into the center of town every once in a while).  I saturated the color to show how it looks in my mind.

How I Travel (More or Less; This Post Kind of Rambles On)

I travel a fair amount.  I’m not one of those crazy airplane-commuter types, and I’m fairly certain that I’ll never take this kind of trip or be like this lady - I pretty much stick to Western Europe and hotels and such.  But, nonetheless, I often find myself packing for a trip of indeterminate length.

I also find myself traveling alone, too - which means no one is there to watch all my stuff if I want to peruse the duty-free shops or catch a quick trip to the loo.  I’ve gotta schlep everything with me wherever I go.  It can be a pain sometimes, but it has taught me to travel light.

As for clothes: I don’t own a lot of them, so it’s easy for me to pack for a trip of any length.  The four pairs of pants I own are all dark-colored - and that’s the way I like it.  Dark clothing hides a multitude of sins - from fat asses to grass stains - and can be paired with tops that can show a bit more pizzazz, if that’s your style.  I’m a New Yorker at heart, so black clothing is it for me: tanks, cardigans, turtleneck sweater and, of course, one perfectly crisp white shirt.

Shoes - I bring slippers for cold or grody floors, winsome flats for dinner or short excursions and my trusty vintage Chanel golf shoes for everything else.  They are indestructible and easily the most comfortable shoes I’ve ever worn.  And they’re Chanel, for chrissakes - they’re gonna go with whatever I’m wearing.

My travel bag is from L.L. Bean.  Again, indestructible and also quite fetching; I swear by it.  I actually have four in various sizes and strap lengths.  I got the idea from my grandmother, who has used the same one when she travels for the last 30 years. In this bag I put all my “tech” gear - laptop, camera, phones, Shuffle way-too-big DJ-strength headphones and all accompanying chargers and plugs; Sudoku. Ticket goes in the outside pocket!

Within this bag I have whatever smaller bag I’m planning to use as my purse while traveling.  I keep all my toiletries in this one, although I dare say I don’t have nearly as many as most women when traveling - deodorant, lotion, toothbrush and paste, tweezers, mascara, kohl, eyebrow pencil, lip gloss, pocket mirror, Chanel no. 5.  I like doing this because I can run to the loo on the plane or train without lugging every piece of electrical equipment I own and looking like a terrorist.

Also in the small purse are my day-to-day essentials: Small notebook (which for the last four years has doubled as a wallet and passport holder because I can’t find the perfect wallet), change purse, pen, mini sanitizing gel, two-gig USB key, lighters, phones, Swiss Army knife, cigs.

That’s it, really.  Give me 15 minutes and I’m ready to go.

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I have to say something here: I honed this skill while living abroad and traveling, to be sure; but the urge to pare down while being prepared started after September 11.

It was kind of an unspoken thing during that time, but every woman I knew had changed the contents of her purse after September 11.  One girl carried dime store flip-flops after she walked home in heels that day; another carried a small flashlight, because the staircase of the building she had to evacuate was dark; still others carried snacks, change specifically allocated for payphones, baby wipes, an extra pair of underwear in a Zip-Loc bag, bottled water - whatever they felt would get them through another unthinkable emergency.

That urgency has faded, but when I travel I still think of what I would need in case I couldn’t go home again. 

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This lengthy and suddenly depressing post serves as the prologue to say this: I’ve found quite possibly the coolest travel kit EVER, from ThinkGeek: The Survival Kit in a Sardine Can.  Per their site:

“The kit includes one of each of the following items: non-aspirin pain reliever, adhesive bandage, alcohol prep pad, antibiotic ointment, book of matches, compass, chewing gum, sugar, salt, energy nugget, duct tape, fire starter cube, first aid instructions, fish hook & line, note paper, pencil, razor blade, safety pin, reflective signal surface, tea bag, waterproof bag, whistle, and wire clip.”

My taste in travel won’t bring me anywhere near anyplace in which I would find myself needing almost any of this stuff; and I sincerely hope that I’m never in a cataclysmic emergency where I’m boiling water in a sardine tin to make tea. 

But, I WANT ONE. 

I want a sardine can survival kit, just because of how I felt that day.  It’s my own private joke, to be sure, but it will remind me of who I was that day, and who I am now - and just how far I’ve come, in ways other than can be marked on a map of this big, beautiful world.

 

 

Offshore Banking

I’ve done a lot of work recently for a company that arranges for their clients to conduct their finances in offshore jurisdictions. I must be writing great copy, because I’m starting to believe my own hype: I want an offshore bank account. I WANT ONE SO BAD.

The hilarious thing about this is, I don’t make a lot of money. I don’t make a lot of money by normal checking account standards, let alone the kind of cash one would need to possess in order to logically conclude that an offshore bank account is a sound financial decision.

I’m not sure what about it attracts me so much. It could be the Jason Bourne fan in me; I have previously written about how jazzed I would be if I found a Swiss bank account number embedded in my shoulder that gave me access to a dozen passports and enough currency to say to a perfect stranger, “I’ll give you ten thousand dollars to drive me to Paris.”

I’d actually have to say this, since I don’t drive. But that’s a story for another time.

The self-absorbed, snobby brat in me would love to pull out a completely blank debit card and say, “Oh, this? It’s linked to my anonymous offshore bank account.”

The travel addict in me wants any excuse to make frequent visits Vanuatu, or Mauritius, or the Caymans, or any of the other dozens of offshore havens there are out there. “Sorry, I won’t be available next week. My bank manager in the Seychelles wants to have a word with me.”

A number of offshore tax havens cater specifically to those who have recently come into a lot of money, whether by inheritance or the lottery or whatever. As I’m cranking out page after page of SEO-heavy drivel, I’m fantasizing about calling up this same client one day and saying, “Hi, remember me? I need an offshore bank account - fast.”

The thing I love best, though, is a service that companies like my client offer - the Virtual Office.

For many offshore banking activities, a registered address in that offshore jurisdiction is necessary. Because these companies are establishing themselves as experts in offshore banking, they have offices in these offshore locations that clients can use as official addresses. Which, OK, that’s pretty cool. I imagine - again, with the Bourne thing - Julia Stiles sitting in a charming apartment with a mother of a back room hooked up to every conceivable network on the planet, waiting to collect my L.L. Bean catalogs and letters from my dad.

But they can also send and receive faxes for you; answer a dedicated phone number as if they’re your secretary and either take a message or forward the call to you while you’re on your yacht or whatever; and, should you find yourself needing to completely fake someone out and pretend that your offshore shelf company is in fact operating at that address, you can use their conference room and auxiliary staff.

Yes, please!

Calcata, Italy: Everything Old Is New Again

On a delightfully sunny Sunday a few weeks ago, we all piled in the car and headed north on via Cassia to Viterbo. It’s not that far out of Rome, and features a bucolic setting worthy of the best Impressionists.

Our first stop was to Civita Castellana, to check out a house Vince and Leo want to buy:

It’s on six acres and you can’t actually drive up to it. We learned later it hasn’t been sold because no one from the actual town further up the hill will buy it - they call it “The House of Doom” due to its close proximity to a large cliff that has a tendency to shed a few tons of itself every once in a while.

We followed the old path that used to be the way into Rome years ago. As in many hundreds of years ago. Now, the path looks like this:

I know. And we were the only ones on it all day. We ate wild asparagus, mint, fennel and onion from the areas next to the path, and Pepino played with lizards and chased rabbits. I found a porcupine’s quill and thought it was a broken paintbrush (I’m not normally exposed to actual nature).

We then piled back in the car and set off for civilization, so to say - Calcata. (Check out that link for a view of the entire town - it’ll give context to the following.) The town was forcibly abandoned in the 1930s for fear of falling down. It remained empty for decades, until it became populated again by souls braver than I. I didn’t realize until I looked at my pictures from Calcata that apparently I was obsessed with the doors in the town:

Every street ended in a sheer drop of about 500 feet. At the end of this one, there was a one-table outdoor bar:

We arrived back in Rome with fresh air in our lungs, flowers in our hair and a good night’s sleep ahead for all of us. 

Living The Slow Life: Rome

Jeez, I have GOT to get back on schedule here. I’m working on several really interesting travel posts, I swear - and I’m really excited to share them with my faithful readers! I’ve also discovered some amazing places a bit north of Rome that will have their own posts. (I just need to know where exactly we were - they usually just stick me in the car and take me with them, and then when we get there and I’m passing out from the beauty, I’m not paying attention to anything they’re saying.)

But, for the moment, I am proud to announce that I have FINALLY FINISHED ORGANIZING MY PICTURES.

You know what that means, don’t you, my little chickadees?

PHOTO POST!

I’m so fortunate to have friends who welcome me with open arms as they patiently wait for me to move back to Rome.  Here are some pix of my Rome, which should help you realize why the city has stolen my heart and is holding it for ransom until I can come back for good.

Bianca wants to know what I’m working on.

Lunchtime!  The lemon in the water pitcher comes from just a few feet away:

Limoncello also comes from this tree.  Yum.

I  realized something crucial was missing from that table pic above.  Sorry!

Orange flowers and comfy hammock.  Naptime!

Vincenzo just laid these stones the other day and did an awesome job.  Bianca also seems to approve.

Bianca is not the only creature at the house.  Pepino gets plenty of love, too.  He jumped in their car while they were in Marche on vacation last year, and refused to get out.  It’s the best decision that dog ever made.

Another garden shot.  On the left in the background?  That would be an aquaduct.  My other friend’s house is built into it, just down the road on the other side of the street.

My Secret Restaurants in Rome

Oh my GOD it has been so long since Miss Expatria has updated her informative, witty blog! Shame on her.

But to be honest, I was busy having fun OOPS I MEAN DOING FIELD RESEARCH for my dedicated readers.

Since I’ve started this blog I have given you some of my best-kept secrets and favorite tips for traveling and eating well. But, I must confess: I’ve been holding back.

There was a place I didn’t tell you about, because I love it too much and want it all to myself. Also, I like surprising guests with it when they come over to see me. It’s in San Lorenzo, and it’s ugly as sin. But holy crap, the food that comes out of that kitchen is divine. But its name and exact location will not be revealed here! You’ll simply have to come over for yourself and have me take you there.

The other night, Mr. and Ms. Pants and I were sitting at the roof bar at the Hotel Mediterraneo in Rome, nursing some Prosecco (OMG THERE’S A FESTIVAL OF PROSECCO? See link OMG) and watching the sun set behind St. Peter’s big ol’ dome. It was their last night in town, and we were deciding what to do for dinner.

We had already eaten at all of their favorite places - this was Mr. Pants’ third time here and Ms. Pants’ second, and much of our time was spent fitting in all the meals they had been dreaming about in the year since their last visit.

However, we passed another place near my neighborhood that was not open yet for dinner, but the smell was unbelievable. We asked Leo - bilingual, bicultural artist extraordinaire and cherished member of the Gay Mafia - if the place was decent.

He paused for a few moments, then said, “Well, it’s OK. Yes, you could eat there. It’s very Roman food. It’s not bad.”

Not a rousing endorsement from someone who took us just a few nights prior to Primo in Pigneto, where we fainted 700 times due to the fabulousness. (Fried sardines, most tenderest octopus, a semi-freddo that brought me to my knees. They have a Gambero Rosso rating, and now I know why.) But we were tired from schlepping all day and wanted to eat close to home, so we gave it a shot.

It is yet another ugly place. Bad lighting, paper tablecloths, long tables. But charming and obviously much loved, with pictures of neighborhood foodies and bad paintings and inside-joke art on the walls. We sat at the only table not reserved; a good sign.

The owner came over and sat down at our table with us. He does this with everyone, and over the course of the night we saw tables fill up but with one seat at each left empty so he could come back for more food orders, chatting, or yelling at people. He knew it was our first time, so he and I quickly negotiated small portions of different pastas for a starter; he said he would come back to list the meats available for the second course. He then stood up, yelled to the kitchen, then came around the table and sat on the other side of me so that he could talk to a guy who was eating alone at the other end of our long table.

Two wooden trays came out, each heaped with identical pairs of different pastas. We dig in and swoon. Rigatoni with a meat sauce - you know the kind, it’s been cooking for a day and a half and it’s practically orange - and homemade fresh tagliatelle with some kind of walnut mushroom yumminess piled on top.

DONE! Meat course, please. Another lengthy conference, but by now Mr. and Ms. Pants were paying serious attention due to the incredible pasta we had just eaten. They wanted to make sure we got aaaaalllllll the good stuff.

The owner ran down the list of meats available, and my jaw dropped (then closed, as I immediately started a drooling Pavlovian response). Ox tail, bull’s balls, tripe, sweetbreads, fried or grilled lamb, steak, on and on he went until I cried “ZIO!” (joking - I don’t think they cry the equivalent of “Uncle!” here) and we settled on tripe for me, homemade grilled sausages for Mr. Pants and fried lamb for Ms. Pants. We also got grilled radicchio, puntarelle (no idea what this is in English, but it’s awesome) and a crispy grilled artichoke.

Rapture. Plates kept coming out, and we kept eating. Everything was simple and done to perfection. We ate like men condemned and finished off the liter of wine, then sat back and looked at each other as if to confirm what had just happened. All we could do was laugh remembering what Leo had said - “Oh, it’s alright, you could maybe go there.”

But you know it wasn’t over. Oh-ho, no.

Out came a bottle of Romanello homemade dessert wine, plunked on the table after the waitress made fun of us for not being able to down what was already in our glasses in one gulp; and biscotti, and a tiramisu that was absolutely shameful. I asked if Ms. Pants could take the biscotti that remained in the basket home with her for the flight the next day, and not only did the waitress say yes - out came another basket and extra napkins to wrap them in.

We stumbled out of the restaurant like three drunks on a bender, practically reeling from gastronmic ecstasy and giggling at what had just happened to us in there. The owner was outside having a smoke, and ciao’d and kissed us all and made us promise to come back. I said to keep the water on, and he laughed.

What? Oh, um, well, no. I won’t tell you where it is. You’ll just have to come over and have me take you there.

South of France to Rome, Italy: Why So Hard?

When I leave today for Rome from sunny Montpellier, I will walk to the end of my street and board an express train to Nice. I have an hour and a half layover in Nice - just enough time to stroll down to the sea while munching on a delicious sandwich from Paul - and then I take the overnight train to Rome.

The train is lovely. I am usually alone in my sleeper compartment; there are fresh cotton sheets and a snug wool blanket; the porter brings me bottled water at night and tea, pastry and the newspaper in the morning. It’s a hotel that hurtles me toward my destination as I sleep, with constantly changing panoramic views and St. Peter’s Basilica in the morning sunrise. I step off the train at Termini refreshed and relaxed, and within 10 minutes I am at the door of my friends’ house.

The entire trip takes 19 hours, due to the layover and several lengthy stops in Italy throughout the night, which go unexplained but I think allow other trains to pass and also let passengers arrive in Rome at an hour when things are actually open (9.45AM as opposed to the previous arrival of 6ishAM).

Nineteen hours! People exclaim. Surely there must be a better way to get there?

The answer? No, not really. There are some that might take less time by the clock, but are infinitely more hassle, due to the fact that they all involve flights.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love flying. But trains were made to be easy, and they are. Heck, on the return tip’s Nice layover I rent a chair on the beach for the morning!

Sure, Ryanair, EasyJet and the rest of them fly from roughly my area (Carcassonne, Lyon, Marseilles, Paris; I mean, it’s all the same country, at least) to Rome’s two airports. But the airports are a hassle to get to from the trains I have to take to get to those towns (Paris Beauvais, anyone?); the planes often leave at bizarre hours, prompting either overnight hotel stays (goodbye, savings) or bizarre contortions of time and space (I can’t get to the airport 14 minutes before my flight; my only other choice is seven hours before my flight).

No, give me my train every time. Clean, comfortable, less chance of death, and you leave from and arrive in the center of each town. Also, one time an old Italian porter pinched my cheek and told me I was a star! When’s the last time someone did that on a plane? NEVER.

[EDIT: Ms. Adventures reminded me of another great thing about trains - bring as much heavy, awkwardly-shaped, or fragile luggage as you want!]

(P.S. You think I’m a foodie? Ms. Adventures has me beat! Check her out.)