Poor trip planning (Part 2)

We arrived in Italy in the middle of the day, and parked at a rest-stop for a late lunch. Waiting in line for my Panini, my stomach started to turn. I knew absolutely no Italian whatsoever, besides a basic bonjourno, prego and gratzi (and don’t judge me for my spelling here - this post is about not knowing Italian). I couldn’t even count to ten. And here I was, Italian phrases unfurling around me at every direction. We didn’t even have a hotel reservation for that night.

Perhaps I’m getting used to Flanders, where everyone and their mother speaks a bit of English, or perhaps it was just that we felt like we would pass through Italy so fleetingly that it really wouldn’t matter, but it had never occurred to me to be nervous about not speaking Italian.

We got to Livorno, the port town where we would take the ferry the next day, and literally just drove around until we saw a couple of hotel signs. We stood in the dimly lit little entryway of an old-fashioned pensione, a plump woman asking us questions that we couldn’t answer. We held up our fingers. One night. One. The t.v. was blaring in the other room, and a little dog barked a couple of times. We surrendered our id’s much too readily, and let her copy the details down by hand in an old ledger before she handed us a key with a giant chain.

The room was somehow incredibly romantic – large and sparsely furnished with a cold tile floor and a high ceiling. There was a picture of the Virgin Mary above the bed, and a Catholic cross right outside our door. We had a sink in the room, and the water was refreshingly cold.

That night, we went out on the street, narrowed in on a couple that looked like they knew where they were going, and slipped into their restaurant behind them. We were embarrassed when the wait staff tried their best to give us details in English, only to go search out the one kid on staff who had apparently passed his English exams in school, or had bragged a bit sometime that his English wasn’t shabby. He was kind to us and served us a good, Italian meal accompanied by good, Italian wine, and he asked us questions eagerly about our travels. At the end of the night, we left a sizeable tip, even though it’s not the custom. Something for the care they took with a couple of unprepared tourists. It was a really lovely time, I suppose, partly because of the language barriers. Somehow, it was more romantic that way. But I must admit, once we made it to Corsica and were back on French-speaking soil, I felt a swell of relief.

Poor trip planning (Part 1)

We decided to go to Corsica before the new year. We told people we were going, and daydreamed about the trip. And then, for some reason, we did nothing. The week wholly snuck up on us, or honestly, perhaps we were just lazy. One month before H. brought home a guidebook that I did manage to thumb through. Three weeks before, we finally sat down and made a reservation for a ferry to take us and our car over to the island. Two weeks before, we still didn’t have a place to stay. It was one of those catch-22’s – we kept asking each other where we should stay, but the more research we did, the more possibilities there seemed to be, and the more difficult it was to decide. Finally (finally!) with a week left, H. e-mailed several places, and we found that our procrastination had actually paid off – it was still the off-season, plenty of places had availability, and we snagged an upgrade for a good price.

I still wrung my hands a bit. What about a hotel for the nights we’ll spend on the road? I asked. Roadside motels, he said. Showing my ignorance – But I had always stayed in sweet little, independently-owned bed and breakfasts or hostels in Europe! Do they even have road-side motels here? Yes, yes they do- enough to make America’s trucker population proud. We cruised around the edges of Strasbourg the night we stopped and passed numerous possibilities in one go. What about that place? I asked. So cheap! When we couldn’t reach it because of the giant fence (it looked more secure than the American Embassy in Brussels), we circled around to the back for access. There, we found several –ahem -ladies of the night standing in short skirts and sequenced jackets, squinting suspiciously as we did an awkward U-turn in front of them. So, perhaps my on-the-road skills need to be honed a little for the European landscape. But still, we did quite well, and found a nice place to stop down the road. A place that didn't rent by the hour or protect themselves with giant fences. With clean rooms. And families. And free breakfast. Can you really ask for more?

Free samples, Belgian style

As I've said before, I'm a sucker for free samples. Sometimes in Philly, I would pop in a Whole Foods or a Trader Joe's just to see what kinds of scrumptious little nibblets they had on offer that day. Cheese squares? Microwaveable meatballs? Free coffee? Oh, I suppose I'll try it, if you insist.

It's the little things that make life here different...


A little wine tasting with your groceries? Don't mind if I do.