In January 2004, Fabulous Cousin and I rented a car in Rome and drove to the east coast through the Apennines. They were breathtaking, with snowy caps and tiny mountainside villages and long tunnels and vertigo cliffs. We arrived in Pescara and drove north along the coast for a while. At one point we got out of the car and walked across the beach to the edge of an angry, stormy Adriatic. I love winter beaches.
We ambled our way blindly up to Città S. Angelo, where our great-grandfather was born. Two dogs followed us through the city walls to a town sitting precariously on the top of a hill. Down every side street there are sweeping views of the Adriatic on one side and mountains on the other. Continue reading
The summer before my freshman year in college, I had a job in a shop on the boardwalk selling sun cream and novelty t-shirts and goofy hats. Continue reading
Yes, there is a story behind this video. Get ready.
OK, I know I just said that I prefer trains when traveling between France and Italy. But I did take a low-cost flight from Rome to Nice on easyJet in December, and as blessed with a stunning view of the Alps, the French Riviera, and Nice during our descent. So make sure your seats are in the upright position, fasten your seat belts and prepare for some of my favorite pictures from last year.
As longtime gentle readers know all too well, I travel frequently between Rome and Montpellier, France. It is a journey of just over 600 miles, a distance that according to Google Maps would take a hair over 10 hours by car.
My father is the original foodie. He’s not the most verbose man on the planet – I’ve always maintained that he says five things a day, and they’re all hilarious – but he lives to eat, and doesn’t mind telling you all about it. Whether it’s the crappy excuse for a hoagie he had in New Mexico in 1981, his much-adored pescatore recipe or the latest “chow-down” with my parents’ friends, he can recall almost every meal he’s ever had with an impressive clarity and describes them with sometimes overwhelming passion.
In fact, sometimes he’ll call me simply to talk about food. I’ll know food is going to be the topic, because he starts with my name instead of “Principessa,” which is how he starts when he’s just calling to chat.
I got slammed with work again and since no one’s paying me $400 to write my pithy missives here (yet?), I need to go back to the dark side and finish up this assignment. However! I made a vow to keep posting regardless of my work load, and that is what I shall do. So while you’re holding for the next installment, which I promise you is a doozy, please enjoy these photos from the time I spent pet sitting in Eastern France this winter! And by winter, I mean I wore layers of heavy clothing and the owner’s rag wool socks and made a roaring fire every single day.