Midwestern Zen

Thursday, October 1, 2009 – Growing up in the bucolic wilds of Colorado in the 1950’s and 60’s, Jake had three sporting “someday dreams.” Someday he would sit in Yankee Stadium, someday he would attend a World Series game, and someday he would go to a Notre Dame football game. Life was good enough to him that the first two “somedays” came true within a few years of moving to New York City, but Notre Dame proved elusive – until this weekend.

Thanks to the generosity of a Notre Dame alum, Jake and Theresa were assured tickets to Notre Dame v. Washington on October 3, in South Bend, Indiana. All we had to do was get there. As we have noted before, one of the best things about being retired is that we have the time to drive places that in the past we would have had to fly to because of limited vacation days or other time restraints. It’s a long drive from dear old Jersey to the bucolic wilds of Indiana, so we decided to rest our elderly Honda and rented a car.

After our traditional pre-trip stop at the local Dunkin’ on Route 18, we headed west on the great American vehicular river system known as the Interstate System. We stopped first for soup and sandwiches in the picturesque town of Bellefonte, PA. Cool Beans Coffee & Tea provided us with just what we needed – a quick and tasty lunch served in a homey, coffee shop atmosphere that included the requisite locals hunched over their laptops, mothers with free range toddlers and lots of couches and chairs.

A 30 minute walk after lunch gave us a glimpse of Bellefonte, which bills itself as full of “Victorian charm,” and we didn’t see anything to discredit the claim. Bellefonte brims with B&B’s, and seems connected at the financial hip with nearby Penn State University. The helpful visitors center is in Talleyrand Park, which also features a pretty gazebo, a restored railway station, and a foot bridge over a nicely flowing creek populated by the usual ducks and the less usual trout.

The continuing drive west on I-80 through western Pennsylvania was quite nice. Fall colors were manifest at the higher elevations and the rolling hills made the drive easy on both driver and passenger. Just before reaching the Ohio border we stopped at the Holiday Inn Express in Sharon, PA. This HIE is an award winner, and it proved to be worthy of its accolades.

It also happens to be right next door to the Tam O’Shanter Golf Course. Jake convinced Stone to join him for a late day, relaxed 9-holes with just us and our cart ($27, total!), and we had a very nice time chasing our golf balls around this friendly, country-setting course.

For dinner we drove about 10 minutes up the road to Hermitage, PA, where we had a very nice time at the Hickory Bar and Grille, where the stuffed wildlife on the walls belies a rather sophisticated menu. We had expected western Pennsylvania to be inexpensive, but get this: two appetizers, two salads, two drinks and a tip: $41.

Friday, October 2, 2009 – Leaving the rolling hills of Western Pennsylvania behind, I-80 lead us quickly into Ohio where just west of Cleveland I-90 flows in, making it I-80/90. Outside Toledo we stopped at Schlotzsky’s Deli, just five minutes off the highway. The franchise slogan is “funny name, serious sandwich,” and it proved to be true. Jake’s sandwich, termed “The Original,” was especially delicious.

We noted that though this sandwich shop was like many you might find back home, here all the employees seemed happy in their work. The guy who called out the order number on the PA system was in such a good mood that he sang the number into the mic. And when we left, the cashier, though helping another customer, bid us an honest and hearty goodbye. This was our first noting of what we termed “the Midwest vibe,” which we noted time and again at gas stations, at shops, at parking lots, at B&B’s, and at the football game itself. Though hard to describe in its various manifestations, this attitude seems based on a happy acceptance of the here and now, even if the here and now is sometimes rather bleak. It’s as if seemingly everyone really believes those bumper stickers that say, “Life is Good.” We felt a little envious of such a sensibility, this sort of Midwestern Zen.

The drive though the rest of Ohio and all of Indiana proved to be as flat as Western Pennsylvania was hilly, but there were iconic rural scenes of farmhouses and silos, and the sky seemed to stretch over everything with an enormity we were not used to. Even the weather seemed bigger. Rain and sun came and went like actors on a stage, and when we stopped to fill up with gas the wind whipped our clothes as it tore over the flat landscape, seeming to come from the distant horizon on a special mission of force.

Like Augusta, Georgia, during the Masters, South Bend has it price gouging on Notre Dame football weekends. Several weeks ago Jake had called some chain place in South Bend, like a Microtel, and was told that for a room with a double bed it would be $375 a night, two night minimum, and though all the rooms were taken, the waiting list was still open.

We ended up booking a room at a B&B in Union Pier, Michigan, just across the border form Indiana and only about 40 minutes from South Bend. The Garden Grove B&B has much to recommend it, but for us, besides its being relatively close to South Bend, its proximity to Lake Michigan was its main draw. We had time after we checked in to do a little exploring. We had hoped to do so by the available bikes, but the weather was iffy at best and still quite windy, so we went by car.

We discovered several “private communities” set along the lakefront. Many of the homes were multi-million dollar places with a Mercedes in the double driveway, but there were some older cottages that hearkened back to the time when these Union Pier neighborhoods were summer getaways for “regular folk,” and here and there among the usual luxury we spotted a community basketball hoop or a children’s playground. It was quite interesting.

We found a public beach at the next town down the lake, New Buffalo. We parked in the empty parking lot and walked the deserted shoreline in the on-and-off rain. It was just us and the seagulls, which were hunkered down against the wind like an army at forced rest. The beach scene was shuttered post season; the day was overcast, rainy and breezy; and the lake was white-capped gray, slightly ominous and downright oceanic. Quite wonderful. Back at the B&B our room seemed especially cozy.

Dinner that night was at the upscale Timothy’s, perhaps only a half mile from the B&B. The room was nicely appointed in a lodge-like atmosphere, the drinks were good and the service was casually efficient. Stone’s mussels were a bit disappointing but Jake’s perch sandwich was very tasty. Though probably not worth the money, Timothy’s provided us with a pleasant evening. On the way back to the B&B we stopped in at Bud and Elsie’s, which was a sort of convenience/grocery/liquor store where we got some coffee to go and bought some bottles of Tabor Hill wine, a local winery we had hoped to visit but never had time for. The coffee was fine, while the wine still awaits consumption.

Saturday, October 3, 2009 – Kick-off for the game was at 3:30, but we left early, wanting to see as much of the campus and hoopla as possible. A little before 10 AM we pulled into our parking area – White North, $20 a car – and then caught a shuttle bus into the campus. The bus driver was the first that day, but hardly the last, to say “Welcome to Notre Dame.” As the bus was filling up somebody said, “Hey, don’t let that guy with the Michigan jacket on.”

The shuttle dropped us off next to the Hesburgh Library and its impressive mural nicknamed “Touchdown Jesus.” Somewhat ironically (or perhaps not) this world class library was built on the old Notre Dame football field. We, and scores of other bus riders, went inside to use the bathrooms. Though the library was closed (football Saturday, you know) Jake noticed a student checking out a good half dozen books via one of several electronic scanners. The weather was sketchy at best, but the campus was full of people and memorable vignettes.

-- The Leprechaun and his cheerleaders jogging around eliciting cheers and chants from the faithful.
-- Many people having their picture taken by the Knute Rockne statue, including several Washington Huskies fans.
-- The ND Bagpipe Band holding forth in grand style on the steps of the Main Building.
-- The signs on ND stadium that tells fans to evidence good sportsmanship, and reminds everyone that alcohol and smoking are both not allowed in the stadium.
-- Here and there on the large, grassy quads of this large, grassy campus, students hawk game day food and soda, often with the aid of a step ladder and bull horn. Dorms have their tables set up, as do many campus groups – the ice skating team, for example. We bought a couple of hot dogs from the ND Chorale, who then harmonized a little song as a thank you.
-- As if in a public service spot for “traditional American values,” numerous families tossed footballs to one another amid cries of, “Go deep!”

Besides the Hesburgh Library there are two other iconic buildings on campus: Main Building (with its famous Golden Dome) and the Basilica of the Sacred Heart (where the team celebrates Mass before each game and the "go to" place for alum weddings.) The Basilica was as beautiful as many we saw in Italy (though not nearly as big), and the Main Building, with its fabulous dome and striking rotunda, not to mention its overall feeling of history and tradition, could easily justify a visit of several hours. But the rest of the campus – though large, green, immaculate and dotted with both art work and historic statues – left us slightly underwhelmed. Perhaps it was simply the flat topography of the land that made us miss the rolling hills of many campuses back east.

Certainly the campuses back east would have a hard time matching the tailgating that we experienced as we walked amid the acres of close-in parking looking for our rendezvous spot with our ND Alum friend. We had to wonder, surveying a scene that was part carnival, part tribal gathering, and all party, if all these good folk were here for football or for something else. (It is to the University’s credit that tailgating is outlawed once the game begins.) There were tents of all sizes and more BBQ’s than you could shake a BBQ fork at, flat screen TV’s being watched in the back of vans and pickup trucks, a school bus painted in ND blue and gold, bare card tables with paper plates next to picnic tables set with china, fine linen and lamps. And of course there was food and beer sufficient to feed the multitudes when Jesus returns to earth to mark the New Jerusalem and the final touchdown.

There were also truly hundreds of people playing a game of bean bag toss, which was like horseshoes but with bean bags. The bags were tossed toward a small, tilted platform with a hole in the top center, which apparently was the ultimate target. Several styles of tossing were in vogue, but each toss seemed to demand the concentration and focus of a British dart tournament. Neither Jake nor Stone had ever seen this style of bean bag game before and its pervasive appeal eluded us both. We decided it must be some Midwestern vibe to which we could not tune in.

We met our ND Alum friend in the NBC hospitality tent on the southern end of the campus. (He works for GE, which owns NBC, which televises all Notre Dame home games.) Being verified on the guest list we got our special passes and lanyards, then entered the tent, which was almost worthy in size to what Muammar al-Qaddafi wanted to pitch recently in Westchester County. The food was plentiful and free, as were the beer and wine and drinks. We passed a lovely hour or so hobnobbing with other “invitees,” who ranged from GE big shots to regular folk like us. It felt special to be special.

We arrived at the game early so as not to miss anything, for there is a lot to see and hear. There is much ceremony before each Notre Dame home game, from the solemn presenting of the colors and the singing of “God Bless America,” “Notre Dame Our Mother,” and the “Victory March,”to the band ending its pre-game show by spelling out IRISH on the field as the crowd roars its approval. The stadium itself is very old school. Ninety percent of the seats are bleacher like with your seat number stenciled on the weathered wood. The field is grass, there are no advertising signs, and there is not a bad seat in the house – and it’s a big house.

The football game itself was not expertly played (few early season college games are), but it proved to be very exciting and drama filled, including key play results being reversed by video review, a “never seen before” double goal line stand by the Irish, brilliant passing by the Huskies’ Jake Locker, equally brilliant play by Notre Dames Golden (even a better first name than Jake!) Tate, and an Over Time victory for the Irish, 37-30. It hardly mattered that at the begging of the second half the stadium was drenched in rain. The game itself, combined with all the atmosphere – the student section (which by the way stands for the entire game) shouting their choreographed cheers and raising each other in the air for “push-ups,” the wonderful half time show, the band playing the “Victory March” ad naseum, the Irish Guard in their kilts on the sidelines, and the noise of 80,000 people in full throat all combined to surpass even Jake’s expectations of what it would be like to attend a football game in Notre Dame Stadium.

After the game we met with our ticket benefactor at the Hesburgh Library and had a very nice chat over coffee and tea at the Huddle Food Court in the LaFortune Student Center. After a bit of a wait on line for the shuttle back to our parking spot, we drove back to our B&B area, and had a good late night snack and beer at The Stray Dog in New Buffalo. The bar’s TVs were awash with late night college football. We went back to our B&B room to sleep the sleep of the fortunate. Hey, life is good.

Sunday, October 4, 2009 – B&B’s have basically two ways to serve breakfast: either at a large communal table or at individual tables set for two, or sometimes four. We have found both arrangements agreeable, but this morning we are glad to have a table for two in the little enclosed porch, and enjoy our breakfast while remembering the thrills of yesterday’s adventure.

The drive back eastward was complicated by an early rain storm, but it soon cleared up, and things went smoothly enough. As I-80/90 rolls through Indiana and Ohio it is much like any other Interstate highway – except perhaps that you pay for the pleasure in both states– but in Ohio we experienced several travel plazas that were the best we’d ever seen. Architecturally pleasant from the road and inside as well, they featured a pristine cleanliness, an airy food court with comfortable seats, a helpful visitors center, and the pervasive Midwestern happy employees. Lunch at Panera Bread in such a setting was both tasty and enjoyable.

We pulled into the Terra Nova B&B in Grove City, PA, at about 4:00 pm. After checking in we went for a stroll through the neighborhood, which seemed to be in one of the older parts of town and had a variety of homes – some a bit sad around the edges and others that featured immaculate landscaping. It was striking to see how many of the homes had flags or banners or something that showed the owners to be Steelers fans.

We had thought we might have trouble finding a place to eat on this Sunday night in small-town western PA, but our hosts had a wide collection of local menus and we settled on the Springfield Grille in nearby Mercer, PA. The parking lot was full when we pulled in and when we got inside we could see why. The Springfield Grille is an attractive place (where even the obligatory stuffed wildlife, in this case an impressive moose, seems just right) with all that we needed for a good dinner: friendly service, good drinks, and a nice menu with cheap prices. When our waitress told us that the appetizers were half priced on Sunday nights, we ordered exclusively from the app menu: bruschetta, an iced crab dish served in a martini glass, a couple of large seared scallops, chopped porcini mushrooms wrapped in little pasta “purses,” and some great grilled lamb. Jake had his usual Rusty Nail; Stone her usual glass of Cabernet. We had coffee. We had to leave a 25% tip so that the bill would be at least be $50. Wow.

Monday, October 5, 2009 – Breakfast at our B&B -- a baked pear in custard sauce, sausage and blueberry pancakes -- was delicious, and provided further evidence of this B&B’s award winning ways. And at $99 for the night, it was another indication of the bargains to be found west – way west – of Philadelphia. It's too bad that Barry and Sandy, the B&B owners are looking to sell, but hopefully whoever buys the place will carry on the good work.

On our drive home we stopped for gas and snacks at Jersey Shore. No, not that Jersey Shore. The little town of Jersey Shore, PA. And not really the town either, just a gas station near the Jersey Shore Exit off the interstate. The cashier was nice, but evidenced little of that magical “Life is Good,” sensibility. We were obviously getting closer to home.

Other Places

Halifaxsimile

Circumstances (read: the usual suspects -- time and money) having prevented another return to Sequim this summer, Stone took Figlia with her to visit Old Friend Maid of Honor in New Hampshire for a few days, while Jake took flight for a late July week in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Jake knew he would not exactly replicate Sequim, but hoped Halifax might provide a reasonable facsimile.

Seeking cheap single digs, I found residence at a “residence hall” – Risley Hall, to be exact, at Dalhousie University. My dorm room was just that, and nothing more, but at $250 for the week (senior rate!) it was an excellent value. Once I got used to the unisex bathroom and showers, and the occasional late night student noise, things went well enough, until the lack of A/C finally…. but more on that anon.

Friday, July 24, 2009 – Having been seriously delayed with my Thursday afternoon flight out of Newark, today was my first day in Halifax. I awoke after only a few hours sleep to find the morning cool, overcast and misting rain – an excellent start. Though I have rented a car, I plan to walk as much as possible, and started out down one of Halifax’s arteries, Spring Garden Road. I had an average breakfast at a place called Smitty’s, then took a look at St. Mary’s Cathedral Basilica (the pope was there, you know), the Halifax Courthouse (19th century architecture), the Halifax Public Library (a dynamic statue of Winston Churchill on the front grounds) and walked briefly through a section of the stately and lovely Public Gardens (British gardening, please stay off the grass), all on Spring Garden Road. Still on SGR I had a terrific lunch at the Saege Bistro, where I enjoyed a deep bowl of seafood chowder, warm spinach salad and some good local pinot grigio.

After lunch the weather turned truly rainy, so I found shelter at a movie-plex (still on SGR), where after 28 minutes of previews (I timed it), I sat through the more than 2 hours of “Public Enemies.” My affinity for Johnny Depp’s acting couldn’t help me from thinking that the whole movie was just a realistic version of the Coen brothers’ “Miller’s Crossing,” both of the movies being so centered on men in hats.

Outside the theater wind had been added to the previous rain, so I hustled on back to Dalhousie, got in the car and headed to a place I remembered from my first visit to Nova Scotia some 30 years ago as being especially picturesque in the wind and rain – Peggy’s Cove. Usually packed with tourists, the now lonely lighthouse, rugged granite shoreline and white-capped sea made for a scene perfectly in tune with the heavy maritime weather.

The wind and rain had not abated when back in Halifax I easily found a parking spot (is it the weather?) and had a light dinner at the bar at the rather fancy Gio in the Prince George Hotel. Here the seafood chowder was once again wonderful, this time highlighted by mussels still in their just-opened shells. My dessert – the whimsically named “I’m jonesing for…” – was a nice variety of tasty treats.

Risley Hall sits very close to Wickwire Field, where, on my way back to my dorm room from the parking lot, I noticed a late night soccer game going on despite the wind driven sheets of rain. There being less than a dozen spectators, I watched for a while from the sideline, my first “serious” soccer game up close and personal. Even with my limited knowledge of the game I could see that these college kids were very skilled players. I found out subsequently that what I watched was not the Dalhousie Tigers versus some other university, but rather two teams from the Eastlink Premiership Men’s Division. I went to sleep that night in my single dorm bed thinking that Landon Donovan and his mates notwithstanding, it seemed unlikely that soccer would ever be so pervasive and passionate down south in the USA.

Saturday, July 25, 2009 – Having seen a little ad in the newspaper for “Tastes of the Valley” at a weekly farmers market in a nearby town, I headed out of Halifax on Highway 101 towards Wolfville. As I approached the town I noticed that the surrounding riverbeds, inlets and such appeared to be recently and violently drained. It took me a few minutes to realize that Wolfville, though not really directly on the Bay of Fundy, was still close enough to bear witness to the bay’s world famous tides, and I marveled at what looked to be at least a 20 foot drop in the water level clearly visible from the highway.

The Wolfville Farmers’ Market was crowded and fun. Besides the usual rural offerings of gluten free bread and organic tomatoes, local restaurants from the Annapolis Valley were cooking up some goodies at $3 a pop. I tried a beef/lamb burger with some type of garlic mixed in, a glass of red wine (to go with the burger) from Muir Murray Winery, and a Raspberry Sensation dessert from Between the Bushes Restaurant. I also snacked on a large cup of nice local cherries ($1) washed down by a mini bottle of apple cider ($1.75) pressed from “little Macs,” by a guy to whom apple pressing seemed a sort of religion.

The music was better than usual at these types of events. It was provided by TripALady, who bill themselves as a “Fiddle-Riffin', Djembe-Thumpin', Harmony-Pumpin', Dance-Pop Acoustic Rock Band,” and for the several songs I listened to, they lived up to the phrase. And don’t you just love their logo? Their version of “Sweet Dream Are Made of This,” sounded even better than this video.

The local tourist office told me of a golf club down the road called Ken-Wo (etymology: it’s between Wolfville and Kentville), and despite it being early Saturday afternoon I was able to walk on and play 9 holes for $25. I joined three young Canadian dudes, who on the second tee told me not to mind them lighting up “some of Canada’s finest,” as they passed around a joint. Not something you’re likely to witness on my local Jersey course. Nor are you likely to see a bald eagle, which soared off to our right as we walked the fairway of No. 7. And I didn’t see a power cart all day. Nor a house, nor a condo, nor a car. I didn’t just like this course, I loved it. As usual this week, I didn’t have my camera when I needed it, but check the photo gallery to get an idea.

After we finished No. 9 and the boys headed on to the back side, I asked them what beer I should get at the clubhouse, and they answered in unison, “A Keith’s, of course.” Of course. I don’t remember what I had to eat in the clubhouse but the Keith’s was so good I drank no other beer the entire week.

That night I went to the Lower Deck Beer Market down by the water and the tourists in Halifax. I had some chowder and salad again, as well as two 10 oz tugs of Keith’s, and talked some baseball with the bartender as the Red Sox were on TV. It being Saturday night the place got crowded and noisy rather quickly, and I headed outside where I got some coffee and pastry. I sat by the water watching the Dartmouth/Halifax ferry shuttle people across a narrow part of the world’s second biggest harbor. Tourists took pictures in the fading light, bachelorette parties wobbled by trying to have fun, and panhandlers flitted like moths between the flames of hoped for easy touches. After such a scene, my 40 minute walk back to the dorm, once out of the harbor area, seemed eerily serene.

Sunday, July 25, 2009 -- Oh, how the Haligonians (as the city’s natives sometimes term themselves) all love a day like today: sunny and warm. To me the sun just seems relentless. It makes me skip from shade to shade as I take the 2 kilometer walk from my dorm northward on Robie Street towards Jane’s on the Common for breakfast. Luckily the breakfast – an omelet with herbed goat cheese, pancetta and sun dried tomatoes, accompanied by two cranberry mimosas, and topped off by a coconut cream tart – makes the sunny trek more than worthwhile. Jane’s proves to be a small, snappy, busy, friendly place, and this was the best breakfast experience I had on this trip.

From Jane’s I headed around the common (a massive bit of green grass without so much as one tree, and scores of Haligonias who frolic there and seem to like it that way!), past the Citadel and down to the ferry, looking forward to the harbor’s breezes. The senior rate (age 60 and over) for the ferry is only $1.50, and that includes a free trip back if you come back within 90 minutes. I have never met a ferry I didn’t like (and this has nothing to do with the fact that I was in Halifax during Gay Pride Week!), and the 10 minute ride seems too short to me, but most enjoyable.

In Dartmouth I walk around a little bit, but it is too hot for me to really enjoy the effort. I check out a restaurant I hope to patronize later in the week – the Nectar Social House – which is close to the ferry and features a nice patio upstairs. (Unfortunately, I never made it back.) Back on the Halifax side of the harbor I attempt to cool down with a “Peach Floyd” smoothie from a harbor side kiosk ($7, but hey…).

Sure that it must be cooler near the ocean proper I head back home, hop in the rented car and head out of town down Purcell’s Cove Road, then down Herring Cove Road, in search of what a tourist brochure calls Crystal Crescent Beach. The drive is lovely, and the watery scenes are tonic to my sun fried senses. Less than 30 minutes out of Halifax the weather changes dramatically as the sun grudgingly gives way to various degrees of fog. I turn off the car’s A/C and open the windows. After a few odd turns and a dirt road or two, I actually find Crystal Crescent Beach, and, to my surprise, it is actually a beach, complete with sand and Frisbees throwers. There are even some hardy souls splashy about in the water. There are several walking trails near the beach so and I have a nice little walk, binoculars in hand, should a rare bird need spying.

On the ride back to Halifax I discover the York Redoubt, which sits on a commanding bluff overlooking Halifax Harbor. Long ago it was vital to the defense of the harbor, as its remaining guns give witness, but on this late afternoon it provides me, and but three other visitors, with a nice distant view and a nice pervading quiet. Lovely way to end the day.

Monday, July 27, 2009 – Outside my dorm window the morning is so foggy I can barely make out the buildings only 100 or so yards away. I head out to Common Grounds, a coffee place on South Park Street, about a 15 minute walk away. Half way there the fog gives way to a light mist, then quickly becomes a steady rain that makes me hustle to my destination. Common Grounds is a big place and provides the morning’s necessities – fresh coffee, a muffin, free newspapers and lots of comfy seating. Making sure to give the weather a chance to change, I take my time eating. Indeed when it is time to leave the rain has stopped, allowing for a dry, if humid, walk home.

Today’s feature event is golf at Indian Lake, an 18 hole executive course a little bit out of town on the road to Peggy’s Cove. The fog, which had abated somewhat in the city, grows more intense as I drive toward the course. To my surprise the parking lot is pretty crowded, but I’m able to walk on ($34 with a pull cart) pretty much right away and join up with a threesome that features a father and high school age son, and their friend, who happens to be a bartender at the Midtown Tavern in Halifax.

Indian Lake, a par 60 playing at about 3,400 yard, proves to be a fun little course. The fog is never really an issue except on one or two of the four par-4’s, and then not seriouly. For an exec course the layout has good variety, features a good amount of elevation change, and there is enough sand and water to tighten your grip on more than a dozen shots. What I enjoyed most about the course was that it is truly out in the country, seemingly carved from the surrounding pine forest. Oh, and there are no power carts available – everybody walks. There is a nice patio for après golf dining and the entire facility is, though modest, quality oriented. Indian Lake was built about 10 years ago, I am told, by the same guy who built, and then sold, Granite Springs, a high end (read: expensive) course down the same road.

Though it was never warm on the golf course it was very humid and I had to take a cold shower back in the dorm. I did some reading (apparently an odd activity this summer in this college dorm; every time I looked in an open door the student(s) was avidly watching TV), took a short snooze and then headed for a late lunch at Darrell’s, which proved to be busy even at 3:30 in the afternoon. But once I finished my big and delicious “Pita Club” wrap and two cold Keith’s I could see why the place was so popular.

Certainly traveling alone (something I haven’t done in years) has its benefits, but eating alone in not one of them. So during this solo trip I often ate at the restaurant’s bar to make myself feel less alone at meal time. I did so again for dinner at the Bitter End on Argyle Street, where I had two martinis and a dish called (ironically enough) “Shrimp to Share.” But I sat virtually alone at the bar with my shrimp, vodka and olives, and except for a sextet of young women obviously celebrating something in a distant booth, the restaurant’s atmosphere was down right sedate. Indeed, on the walk home, several coffee houses, eateries and bars were closed. On this Monday night, Halifax seemed more like a town than a city.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009 – Another overcast and seemingly cool morning, but my walk to Annie’s Place – just off Spring Garden Road, on Birmingham Street – proved once again the enervating power of maritime humidity, and I arrived hoping against hope for some A/C. But of course it was not to be. Outside of the movie theaters, hotels and museums, I found no A/C anywhere in Halifax. Annie’s Place is a small (5 tables), entrepreneurial, very homey place, where Annie (one surmises) does the cooking, runs the cash register and asks nearly everyone where they’re from, while the young waitress carefully hands out the hot coffee and takes orders in both English and French. My Hearty Oat French Toast (ordered in English) with warmed maple syrup was large and fabulous.

From Annie's it is a short walk to the Art Gallery of Nova Scotia where my senior admission costs only $8. The gallery is housed in two buildings, but is small enough to be viewed in an hour or so of leisurely walking. Properly enough, the gallery’s emphasis is on “local” art and artists, and on the day that I visited its collection of Native Indian art was interesting and on occasion, quite stunning. It is nice to be able to get up close to the paintings and other art works without being admonished by a gallery guard, of whose regiment I saw but one during my visit. The gallery’s gift shop is loaded with stuff, but unfortunately, not a lot of reproductions from the gallery itself. I did wish I hadn’t filled up on Annie’s French toast, for the gallery’s eatery, the Cheapside Café, had a menu that was most tempting, and the place itself looked very stylish and inviting; and oh, it was air conditioned.

After the museum I took another ferry ride to Dartmouth and back simply for the fun of it. But during my back and forth harbor trip the sky lost its cloudy luster, the sun came out, and I found myself once again jumping from shade to shade as I walked back uphill from the harbor to the Little Fish restaurant for lunch. Here it was actually cooler on the shaded sidewalk patio than inside, so I enjoyed my (very good) fish and (only average) chips (and Keith’s, of course), as I watched the world walk by, seemingly enjoying their damn sunshine.

On my way back home I head over to Spring Garden Road and make a visit to the Old Burial Gound, where there is at least some shade from the trees. This cemetery has a good number of headstones from the late 18th century, several with still visible iconography that strikes the 21st century eye as strange indeed. Further up the road I visit again (I walked through the gardens three or four times duirng this trip) the venerable Public Gardens, where I can also walk in the shade of the numerous trees (many with an interesting history) while admiring the meticulous gardening, the rigid formality of which only seems to enhance the vibrant color of the myriad flowers, the old gravel paths of counterpointing grey, and of course, the obligatory grand gazebo.

After a cold shower back in my dorm and a less than totally successful attempt at a snooze, I headed out for Lost Creek golf course, about a 45 minute drive away. I had hoped that by playing late in the day I might not only get in a quick round by myself but might mitigate the heat and humidity. Neither actually happened, but still this round of golf ($41 with a pull cart) proved to be the best of my three outings. I was joined on the tee by two guys (both members of the club) and a middle aged woman who had just gotten off work. It turned out that it was good I didn’t play alone, for while Lost Creek is a short course, its numerous doglegs, blind and purblind shots, often insidious water, deep bunkers and slanted greens, all give the first time player a definite need for direction and advice.

Lost Creek, though 10 years old, is still fine tuning some landscaping and such, and apparently three holes were just recently finished and opened for play. There is no clubhouse and the pro shop works out of a trailer. But there is little doubt that this layout – with a river running through it (especially beautiful as it rushes between No.1 and No.2), lake views (especially on the back nine) and surrounding forest (on virtually every hole) – is both a challenge and fun to play. Despite the humidity, the late day flies, and the mosquitoes (helping me remember why I rarely play golf in the summer), this round of golf, finished on No. 17 under a Canadian sunset worthy of song and on No. 18 in near darkness, was flat out wonderful.

The only down side to my late play was that by the time I rolled back into Halifax I was so hungry (and too sweaty to go any place nice) that I ended up eating at a 24-hour McDonald’s on Quinpool Road. Well, at least it was air conditioned.

Wednesday, July 29 – Last night was the first night I found my dorm room to be too hot to get any kind of decent sleep, so I didn’t mind finding myself awake a little earlier than usual, though in need again of a cold shower. I had my usual coffee and such this time at the Coburg Coffee House, which is just on the edge of the university’s campus.

It is another warm day and I decide to head out again to the shore, but this drive, though nice enough, proves to be uneventful. For lunch I head back to the Saege Bistro where I sit at the little bar area and enjoy another tasty lunch amid the busy hubbub.

Part of the reason I was so happy to reserve my dorm room at Dalhousie (besides its price) was that my issued swipe card worked not only for dorm and room entry, but also for the university’s recreational facility, Dalplex. Here I found the promised big swimming pool I had read about, and though it was busy with frolicking children and swimming lessons, I found it easy to find a lap lane all to myself.

Though refreshed by my swim, I had already decided that after last night’s sweaty tossing and turning I was not going to go another night without A/C. So back in my room I phoned around and found a room at the Howard Johnson Bluenose Inn and Suites for $69; A/C assured. Sitting near the eastern shore of the Bedford Basin, this HoJo was more than adequate for my needs. And it is actually closer to the Halifax airport so tomorrow’s drive will be that much shorter.

For my final night’s dinner in Halifax I motored back into the city and ate at the Economy Shoe Shop, a much ballyhooed restaurant and night spot. Again I found the city’s streets to be generally lacking in crowds or buzz, but what buzz there was was certainly at the Economy Shoe Shop. Large, loud and busy, with an eclectic décor that is both sassy and classy, it seemed to me to be very much a bistro on steroids.

Whenever I had seafood in Halifax (except for that fish sandwich I had at McDonalds – did you know it comes with a slice of cheese??) the seafood was always, as they say, awesome. Up until this evening the seafood soup at Saege had been at the top of my list, but the Economy Shoe Shop’s Whiskey Maple Scallops made it a photo finish.

Happily sated and comfortable on my bar seat, I lingered over my trip’s final Keith’s and thought about what made Halifax so cool, so to speak: the sign on some country road that said “skates sharpened here;” the way every car stops for pedestrians, even jaywalkers; the law that makes it mandatory that cigarettes sold in stores be hidden from view; the fact that Halifax hosts a giant Gay Pride Week; the fact that almost all the city’s numerous bicyclists wear helmets, even the kids; the fact of Keith’s Pale Indian Ale.

And so now, what of my hope to find a reasonable facsimile of Sequim for a summer escape?
In sum, no luck; Halifax was simply too hot and humid (as is, my research shows, 90% of North America south of the Arctic Circle) to warrant another summer visit from me. The people, the vibe, the food, the beer, the countryside and the golf were all exceptional. Surely Halifax must be paradise, come autumn.

Other Places

Italy: Getting to Pescara

Wednesday, April 1, 2009. The airport in Rome – officially known as Leonardo di Vinci, but usually referred to by its proximate location, Fiumicino, a town on the coast a good distance from Rome proper – proves easy to navigate, and Jake and Stone find their way to the trains heading into the Eternal City. Thanks to Stone’s recent and earnest studying of Italian she is able to fairly easily purchase train tickets from the airport to Tiburtina, one of Rome’s two main travel hubs (the other being Termini). The more usual way into the city is via the Leonardo Express, but we need a train from Rome to Pescara, and that train runs out of Tiburtina.

The train ride to the Tiburtina station proves to be an immediate test of our adaptability. The train is hot and humid, and crowded with people and their various travel baggage, including an incongruous baby pram of Victorian proportions that all but completely blocks one doorway. Still, people jump over bags and slither around each other easily enough as they get on and off of this local, very local, train. After about 40 minutes, and with an equal number of people saying “scusi” in perfect Italian!, we arrive at Tiburtina. Here Stone’s Italian skills once again are necessary to get us two tickets to Pescara, but the train schedule board is easy enough to read, as are the signs that directs us to the proper track.

As is apparently necessary when riding all Italian trains, we have to get our tickets time-stamped at a little yellow box beside the track before we board. When the train for Pescara pulls up, both of us initially think that it is a “work train,” such as is often visible after hours in the NYC subway. But no, this rusting and graffiti smeared string of cars is our ride to Pescara. The inside proves to be better looking than the outside, and there are so few passengers that we have little trouble finding seats and storing our luggage.

Figlia, who is studying at the university in Pescara for a semester during her junior year at college, has told her parents to take the train from Rome to Pescara, rather than the bus, because the train ride is so scenic, and indeed it is. Tivoli (home of Hadrian’s Villa) proves to be an early sight to behold, and the rest of the four-hour plus train ride across the Apennine Mountains features bucolic mountain and valley views, distant snowy peaks, ruined castles on the always-surviving hills, villages that seem to spill down their respective hillsides, lonely stone huts that have sheltered who knows who over the centuries, and even a large flock of sheep and their attendant shepherd (complete with vocational crook!). But the ride also reveals a few dreary small towns and some scrubby countryside where spring has yet to penetrate the higher elevations.

Pescara Centrale is like the city of Pescara itself – a modern and functional train station, but nothing to put on a post card. Using our calling card we call Figlia (after punching in and re-punching about 80-90 digits) to let her know we have arrived, and minutes later there is a most happy, hug filled family reunion. Using Figlia’s Italian cell phone, we arrange for our pickup and ride to our rented apartment in northern Pescara. The 1 BR apartment is in a newly constructed condo development and features a large terrace with a view that is urban but pleasant. We all settle in (Figlia having no classes she considers mandatory till next week, decides to sleep on the fold-out couch) and then head out for dinner.

The late night weather has turned rainy, but it is only a 10 minute walk to the suggested restaurant – Pizzeria Mexico. The restaurant validates its peculiar name by a décor that features not one, but three faded sombreros tacked to a wall in the larger than expected dining room. There is a soccer game on the little TV watched by two or three families as they have their dinner. Figlia’s Italian skills again come in handy in ordering dinner, which proves to be surprisingly good for such an unassuming local place, and the half bottle of Montepulciano d'Abruzzo is so deliciously memorable that we get the OK to bring the bottle home as a first-night-in-Italy souvenir.

Thursday, April 2, 2009. The morning brings a day flush with Italian sunshine. From our terrace we see people going about their business, in cars, on noisy scooters and quiet bicycles, and many simply walk. Despite the warm morning all the locals make their way wrapped in sweaters or coats, or often as not, both. Figlia has a theory that almost all Italians are deathly afraid of being cold or hungry. (Jake wonders privately if this cultural trait is some pre-historic memory of World War II.)

We head out to join the passing parade, and buy our bus tickets (one Euro each) at a tabbachi on the main street. As with the train tickets, these bus tickets must be validated with a date stamp, obtained from a little yellow box on the bus. Buses are generally boarded either in the rear or the front of the bus, and one exits the bus through the middle door. Such a system frees the bus driver from the hassle of collecting fares and relies on the general honesty of the bus riders. Figlia says that the police routinely check for scofflaws and hand out stiff fines, but during our five or six times on Italian buses we never saw any checking go on.

On the ride down the busy main road into the heart of Pescara Jake and Stone try to spot the name of the road, which they never can do, street signs being at an apparent premium. (Being from New Jersey, we are not unfamiliar with this phenomenon.) But Figlia tells them not to bother as the street changes names about four or five times along its four or five mile route. (Being from New Jersey, Jake and Stone are not unfamiliar with this phenomenon.) We get off at Pescara Centrale, which is pretty much the center of town, and seek out breakfast. We find a “bar” and have the usual Italian breakfast fare of several pastries, some espresso, Coke Light (Diet Coke) and cappuccino. As we sit eating our calories and sipping our caffeine, local customers come in, usually buy just a coffee of some definition, drink it standing up at the counter, jest with each other and the women serving them, then go about their day.

At the main Abruzzo tourist office on the same street (named here as Corso Vittorio Emanuele II) we get what information we can, which is not much: a couple of nice looking but not overly helpful brochures and a map of the Abuzzo region, which later proves to be of no help since none of the roads on the map are numbered or have names. However, the tourist office does provide us with the address of the nearest car rental and luckily it is right on the main bus line. We buy bus tickets again, this time at a convenient machine by the bus stop, and get a quick ride down to Danelli Auto on Via Marconi (same street, different name) where we rent, despite their being a Peugeot dealer, a nice 4-door Fiat Punto.

As good luck would have it, Figlia’s apartment is less than a kilometer away, so Jake braves the traffic and completes his maiden voyage in Italian urban traffic to her place and arrives with both car and passengers intact. Figlia lives with three Italian roommates, and shares a room with one of them. Two roomies are at home and say hello in English as they eat in the kitchen, TV blaring. The tiny hallway is filled with clothes hanging out to dry on a large but space efficient clothes rack. The 3BR apartment is small, clean and decorated in co-ed style with posters, hand written notes, pictures of impossibly handsome young men, and the like. Figlia’s roommate (currently not in) is a Tim Burton fan and has decked out her side of their shared room with movie posters and other Burton paraphernalia; on her bed is a pillow cover with a sort of creepy/funny skull and crossbones. Figlia says she gets along well with all of her roommates, and that all of them can cook a great meal at the drop of a hat. Generally, they cook and she washes the dishes; they all four share the other cleaning duties.

We decide to drive out to a fairly new Abuzzo sensation, a mega shopping mall called Megalo, that lies about 10 miles outside of Pescara just off one of the main autostradas that mimic our interstates. Megalo proves to be a scene worthy of Jersey at its most (in)famous, but we all enjoy it for what it is, and Stone and Figlia both opt to get their hair cut at a glamorous (and it turns out, expensive, but what the heck!) shop. Though there are maybe a dozen places to get food in this mall, this is Italy not Jersey, so all the good places are closed for the afternoon and won’t reopen until 7 PM. We do finally find a little place that serves OK pizza and good gelato, thus getting some sort of late lunch.

Back in Pescara, Figlia directs us to her favorite local restaurant for dinner, as long as someone else is footing the bill. Taverna 58, on Corso Mantheone, sits down in “Old Pescara” near the Pescara River and provides us with one of our most memorable meals. Grilled meats are an Abruzzo tradition, so our order includes rabbit and lamb, but we also share Figlia’s favorite dish of chitarrina with mushrooms and truffles dell'aquila, and of course, several other pastas and glasses of red wine. But besides the alluring food, Taverna 58 is a place percolating with history, personality and style:
-- Both Gabriele d’Annunzio (famous author and name sake for the Pescara university Figlia currently attends) and Ennio Flaiano (screenwriter for some of Fellini’s films) were born on the same block as the restaurant.
-- The wine cellar (which we were lucky enough to allowed to view after our dinner) dates from the 13th century.
-- On the menu is a quotation that translates (roughly) into “Art is a way to keep your feet firmly planted on the clouds.”
-- During our two and a half hour meal we got to share some of the famous “hot zabaglione with Marsala” whipped up in a large copper bowl at the table next to us by the maitre d' who reportedly did the same for Italian TV a few years back to commemorate his 100,000th such serving(!).
-- Near the end of our dinner we were also given free shots of some sort of local dessert wine or sherry, apparently because the night just called for it.
At a bill of only 120 Euro, it was a night perhaps worth twice the price.

Driving back to our apartment we get lost, but knowing we want to go north, Stone adroitly drives toward the Adriatic Sea where we hook a left at the beach and drive the quiet, palm tree lined Viale della Riviera till we see some recognizable landmarks that guide us home. Before going to bed we try to watch some TV, but several of the stations don’t seem to work correctly, so we end up watching “South Park.” Being in Italian it is much more enjoyed by Figlia than by either the semi-literate Stone or the completely and hopelessly illiterate Jake. Later, thankfully, sleep comes in its universal language.

Other Places

Italy: Assisi

Friday, April 3, 2009. We are late on the road due to our sleeping in till almost 11 AM. Our tourist office map of the Aburzzo region proves of little help in finding our way out of town and onto autostrada A14 where we want to head north towards Assisi. Our late night dinner at Taverna 58 has made breakfast proper unnecessary, but not so Stone’s need of coffee. Desperate, she pulls us into a McDonlads where her order of “caffé Americano” (“I need a big cup of java if I’m gonna do all this drivin’.”) takes more than several minutes for the staff to prepare, but is worth the wait. Back on the road, our Fiat finally finds an entrance for A14 and we are able to finally zip along, a la the Jersey Turnpike. However, the views are dissimilar. All along this trip northward the blue and then even bluer Adriatic Sea comes in and out of view to our right.

Once on the autostrada the signs to Assisi are easy to follow and things go swimmingly until we get to the hilltop home of Italy’s Patron Saint. By this time Jake is driving and he heads into the ancient town thinking all he needs is his handy printed-at-home Google map of the town which pinpoints where we'll be staying for our two nights in Assisi -- Saint Anthony’s Guesthouse at Via Galeazzo Alessi, 10. Ten minutes later we are hopeless lost in a town that might be historically Catholic but has a “road” system that can only be described as deeply Byzantine. We stop to ask directions and are told to take a left and all will be well. Sure.

A left turn gets us onto a road that is not a road at all. To call it a “lane” would be generous. It is, in truth, a cobble stoned hallway lined with houses. We give ourselves a better chance of not knocking over the flower boxes by folding in the car’s side mirrors, hold our collective breath, and drive. The historic saints of Assisi must look after non-believers as well, for somehow we make it to the end, find another cobble stoned path that is merely cluttered with pedestrians and somehow make it out of Assisi proper and onto a real road. We drive around the perimeter of the town looking for some place to park, finally parking Italian style (the right two wheels up on a sort of sidewalk) in an dirt parking lot. Bags in tow we three walk up steps too numerous to count, find our way into town and finally to the front gate of St. Anthony’s.

St. Anthony’s is a B&B that caters to English speaking visitors and is run by the Franciscan Sisters of the Atonement. We are greeted by Sister Sue, whose English has a strong accent – Canadian that is! (Figlia, who has always been fascinated by accents -- she once watched the movie “Fargo” three times in one day just for the thrill of hearing the characters’ accents – will spend a good portion of the next 48 hours keeping her parents in stitches by “channeling” Sister Sue’s lilt on many an occasion.) Our triple room has a high ceiling and is fittingly simple, with only two chests of drawers, an armoire, and one chair at a small desk. There is a shuttered window that looks out a lovely pastoral scene and St. Clare’s bell tower. The B&B’s common areas include a sitting room and a library, both with commanding views of the rooftops of Assisi and the rolling green that stretches to the horizon, a garden with a statue of St. Francis, and a large breakfast room. For under 90 Euro a night, it turns out to be the best lodging value of our entire trip.

We find the streets of Assisi to be much easier to walk than to drive and soon we are standing in a quiet piazza looking up at the impressive Duomo di San Rufino (named after the third century bishop who was martyred here) and its 11th century bell tower. Flanking the main doorway are two weathered and scarred sculptures that show the rather chilling scene of some sort of lion-like beast devouring a person head first. (Welcome to Mass; better say your prayers.) But it is inside where we get chills of a different sort. In the back of the church, protected by a small bit of ornate gating, stands a brownish marble baptismal font not without several cracks and repair marks. No doubt it was in perfect shape in 1182 when it held the water that was used that day to baptize a certain infant boy, who would become the world’s favorite Catholic saint.

Assisi is a very pretty town. It is tourist driven, certainly, but it is easy to overlook the kitschy stores and the seemingly endless supply of Catholic tchotchkes (an ecumenical phrase!) where nearly every street winds its way among handsome medieval and Renaissance houses, past scores of colorful flower boxes and charming stone stairways, through ancient arches and underneath hanging street lanterns seemingly wrought only a few hundred years ago.

In Assisi’s central piazza sits an interesting church: Santa Maria sopra Minerva. It was built in the first century BC as a temple dedicated to Minerva, but in the 16th century it was converted into a Catholic church, and dedicated to Mary (“sopra” means “over” or “above”), thus preserving the entire Roman façade with its six still fabulous looking Corinthian columns. It is quite interesting to walk up Minerva’s 2,000 year old steps, pass between those simple white columns and then walk into Maria’s highly decorated interior.

Directly across from this hybrid church is a vaulted archway decorated with old and rather strange looking paintings. It is through here that we walked later that night for a wonderful dinner at Trattoria Pallotta, where the scene was warm and local, the food delightful, and the half liter of local Umbrian wine simply superb. Thanks to Figlia's charm we are allowed here, as at Taverna 58 in Pescara, to descend after dinner into the restaurant's wine cellar where we see the hundreds of bottles that lie in waiting to be chosen by true oenophiles more knowledgeable than we.

Having started dinner at 7:30 (which was about as early as we could ever have dinner in a country where people really don’t start to eat until 8 or 9), we found we had time to dash up to visit St. Rufino again, where Sister Sue had told us there was to be a special Friday night service. We arrived in time for the last 15minutes, which was enough to appreciate the choir and the cathedral’s booming musical acoustics. After the service, we joined the local multitude in touching one of the church's icons -- an old and rather crudely carved wooden replica of the Pieta that was on a small pedestal near the alter. Then it was a downhill walk back to our B&B's triple bedroom.

Italy: Perugia

Saturday, April 4 , 2009. Breakfast is served at St. Anthony's from 7:30-8:30, and just to insure that everyone makes it, soft, classical music is piped through the building starting at 7:15. The breakfast is refreshingly American continental, with yogurt, cereal, juices, breads and the like. St. Anthony's also provides a gated parking lot (a real plus in Assisi) and it is from here that we get the Fiat back on the road and head today for Perugia.

But first we make a stop at the Basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli, which lies but a few kilometers out of Assisi down in a typical Umbrian plain. We are early enough, and lucky enough, to find a parking spot near the church. Several tour buses are unloading near the church’s piazza and we hustle over to beat the forming crowds. St. Mary of the Angels is a big, big church (learned subsequently that it is in the world’s top 10 for Catholic bigness), but it is the little church inside the big church that draws us and the crowds.

Directly under the dome of the giant church sits a church, in miniature, as it were. This chapel size building is the famous Porziuncola, where St. Francis set about his mission, founded the Franciscan Order, and consecrated St. Clare (she of the Poor Clares) as a Bride of Christ. Additionally, in St Mary’s or on its grounds we also get to see the remains of the good saint’s rope belt, a low window that marks the place where he died, and a rose garden that grows thornless roses thanks to St. Francis overcoming a temptation he never named. Still, in the end, it is the juxtaposition of the tiny 13th century chapel inside the giant 18th century basilica that sticks in our minds, a clear metaphor of how the Catholic Industry swallowed up its founding Artisans.

We are all anxious to see Perugia, the capital of Umbria, and a city that several of Figlia’s friends have said is one of the most beautiful in central Italy. From one of Perugia’s many parking lots in the lower town we take an outdoor, covered escalator up to the next level, where we find another escalator, which leads to yet another escalator which finally leads us to a busy street. Asking directions (Figlia’s Italian again being most helpful) to the main piazza we are pointed to a corner where there are yet two more long escalators (think airport “people movers” in length) that finally bring us, after a few dozen more steps up, to the heart of the city, Piazza 4 Novembre. (Jake thinks to himself that Perugia should replace its city symbol of a griffin with an escalator, or better yet, a griffin riding on an escalator.)

Jake has brought along a walking tour narration that we use to walk the city. Perhaps the highlight of our walk is a 5th century circular church, Tempio di San Michele Arcangelo, which has its interior supported by 16 columns that were likely part of a Roman temple (thus Tempio) that was itself likely built on top of an Etruscan place of worship. The dim light coming in from the small, high windows barely illuminates the several faded frescoes. Hard to read plaques (Latin or Italian?) on the marble floor seem to mark several ecclesiastical crypts. Though there are no other tourists in this ancient, atmospheric place we find ourselves whispering to each other.

Our walk also includes a trip on Perugia’s old aqueduct, which long ago provided water that ended up at the famous Fontana Maggiore back in the Piazza 4 Novembre, but currently provides some wonderful views of the town and the surrounding countryside. About the time we found the University for Foreigners but got slightly lost looking for the more famous (and older, being founded in 1308) University of Perugia, we decided to stop for lunch, for soon every eatery will be closed for the afternoon. Figlia spots a place on Via Fabretti. Though it appears to Jake and Stone to be nothing special, maybe just a fast food hole in the wall lunch counter, the waitress at Ristorante Brizi brings us past the lunch counter, then some down steps next to a hot and working open brick oven and into a lovely room where we have a very nice little lunch, complete with a small carafe of the usual good, cheap red wine. It seems it might be nearly impossible to have a bad lunch in these central hills of Italy.

After about another hour of hiking the picturesque ups and downs of Perugia, we end our walk back at Piazza 4 Novembre where Figlia makes Stone practice her Italian by making her order gelato for all 3 of us. It is against international law, not to mention good sense, to go to Perugia and not buy some Perugina chocolate, so we dutifully stock up for family, friends and ourselves at the apparent mothership store just off the piazza at Corso Vannucci 101, then head back to the escalators for our trip down to the parking lot.

On the drive home back to Assisi it starts to rain. It is still raining when we arrive back at St. Anthony’s so we ask the good sisters for a restaurant close enough to quickly walk to. Ristorante Degli Orti turns out to be close indeed, and like most of the restaurants in town, a family run affair. At the end of our dinner our “ricevuta fiscale” shows: 1 pane e coperto, 1 acqua, 3 vino, 1 antipasto, 1 primo piatto, 2 caffe-digestive and 2 pranzo complete and 1 cola cola; total 56 Euros. During our dinner a young Italian couple comes in and their cute bambino (about 2 years old) who runs about the restaurant charming everyone, even when he makes his way over to the restaurant’s fax machine and starts to press some buttons. Kids!

The rain seems less annoying on our walk back to the B&B. The water runs out of downspouts perhaps hundreds of years old, refreshes the hanging flower pots, glistens the dimly lit cobble stones, and then listened to in our beds makes sleep a thing to enjoy. Though Longfellow wrote it, certainly the nature loving St. Francis would agree: “The best thing one can do when it’s raining is to let it rain.”

Italy: Palm Sunday in Assisi

Sunday, April 5, 2009. Church bells awaken us at 7 AM, which only seems proper. After breakfast we head back to Piazza del Comune and wait outside the Minerva Temple/St. Mary Church for the Palm Sunday procession that begins here and will wend it way up the streets of Assisi to the St. Rufino Cathedral. A disparate crowd gathers, some holding olive branches. We see someone handing them out and get one each. A Brit tourist asks me if I know when “the parade starts.” As the crowd swells two men bring two big baskets of olive branches up to top of the steps of the Temple/Church. Near the piazza’s little fountain two police officers casually watch over things and chat with the natives. People greet each other with the Italian kiss of the air beside each cheek. Many elderly women are dressed all in black. At one point the children in the crowd are asked to come up to the top of the steps, where they each receive an olive branch and then stand off the side in a quiet, respectful group. A choir gathers on the top of the steps on the other side, opposite the children.

The crowd now includes several monks in the belt-roped robes, nuns in their usual black and white, and other churchmen in simple black tunics. With the aid of a microphone and a set of small speakers attached to a piece of wood that a man holds up above the crowd, the choir sings a hymn. From out of the church door the bishop steps up in his many layered and colorful vestments, including a miter to die for, and using the microphone addresses the crowd. He then sprinkles holy water on the baskets of olive branches, throws some the crowd’s way which hold their branches skyward, and then says a prayer. The blessed olive branches are handed out to the crowd as the bishop, followed by several other churchmen of apparent high order, walks carefully down the steps, his golden bishop’s staff temporarily held by an assistant. The bishop seems to glance at the fountain that looks perhaps inspirational in the bright morning sunshine, and then at the crowd, and smiles. Getting his staff back from his assistant he begins the procession up to the Cathedral of St. Rufino -- which is classified a cathedral (rather than a church or basilica) because it serves as the bishop’s seat, or more romantically, his throne. We three join the procession, as those who know the words sing hymns along the way, up the narrow streets now crowded not with cars or scooters but only people.

At St. Rufino’s more than a few walkers peal off before we head into the cathedral. The cathedral seems fully packed and we sit with many others in folding chairs toward the rear. Though the scene is quite impressive and the music is lovely, the service is longer than we anticipated, especially the parts requiring the congregation to stand, and we join a few others in making an early exit.

Being near the top of Assisi already, we decide to hike up to Rocca Maggiore. It is warm, but we take our time, stopping now and then to admire the views. This one time mighty fortress still dominates the Assisi scene, and though it might disappoint some looking for more than it is, all three of us thought its several exhibits and historic atmosphere worth the long climb and price of admission.

Jake got a special thrill learning that Frederick of Swabia, as a young boy, might very well have walked the same stones he now walked. Jake thinks you have to love a medieval guy who became, as Holy Roman Emperor, Frederick II, and was (or claimed to be) King of Jerusalem and King of Sicily as well. Frederick also knew six languages, wrote an early “scientific” book on falconry, founded the University of Naples, was (of course) a Christian but maintained a harem, was excommunicated not once but twice, and is assigned in Dante’s Comedy to be among the damned. As a child it is likely our Frederick made his way up the long spiral staircase to enjoy the panoramic view atop this fortress as did Stone, Jake and Figlia some centuries later.

We figured that the several Palm Sunday services would now be over at the Basilica di San Francesco, so we walked to that end of town to see the famous 13th century edifice. We especially wanted to see a fresco that Figlia had studied and written about in an art history class in college. It is "The Dream of St. Martin" by Simone Martini. After a bit of a search Stone spotted it. Figlia looked at it and talked about it with an educated awe that made her parents proud.

We had all come to the world famous Basilica of St. Francis with high expectations. It did not disappoint. Whether it is the good saint’s tomb, which is below the lower basilica and is thick with a dark air of reverence and the hush of scores of true believers kneeling and crossing themselves; or the lower basilica, which squats above the crypt but below the large basilica above, its vaulted walls, ceilings and chapels so crammed with art that one feels almost suffocated by the medieval aesthetic; or the airy upper basilica with its soaring ceiling and its famous repertoire of fresco masterpieces by Giotto, it is impossible to process but a fraction of this sensory overload or to be unmoved by what a man, and mankind, can accomplish. Outside the church, on a giant lawn that fronts the basilica is a large topiary rendering of one word that reminds us all of what mankind too often can't accomplish: Pax.

The drive from Assisi back to Pescara was uneventful, except for the obligatory getting lost for a bit, this time in a town called Foligno, which is Italian for "No Road Signs." Back in our Pescara apartment Stone makes a nice dinner of pasta which we have with some Sangiovese wine we bought in Assisi. Everything is calm and peaceful as we go to sleep. It does not stay that way.