The ultimate [travel destination] for me would be one perfect day in San Francisco. There’s no city like it anywhere. — Larry King

Coit Tower

It’s official. I read it in Arthur Frommer’s Budget Travel. According to the magazine’s October 2010 Reader’s Choice poll, the most beautiful city in the world is . . . wait for it . . . San Francisco. Yep — the City by the Bay beat out Paris, Vancouver, Venice and Charleston for the top spot. Even the editors were surprised.

But they shouldn’t be. San Francisco also ranked #2 as the “Best Food City in America” and  #4 as the “Most Fun Place to Get Away With the Girls/Guys.” As Tim and I learned this past June, it’s a fabulous place. And the diversity is what really impressed us. Not just the diversity of the people and their neighborhoods — Japantown, Chinatown, Koreatown, Italian North Beach, the gay Castro, the yuppified Marina — but the diversity of the place itself. And the city’s gift for reinventing itself after disasters like earthquakes and fires.

At Mission Dolores

One of our favorite spots in the city was Golden Gate Park. Talk about diversity! In one space, three miles long and half a mile wide, there are 27 miles of walking trails; its 1,000+ acres make it the largest cultivated urban park in the country. Want a carousel? The Herschel-Spillman Carousel, built in 1912, is here — in the first children’s playground in the US. How about a Japanese Tea Garden? Check. A Shakespeare Garden? Yep. An art museum? How about the deYoung? A lake? Stow Lake and Strawberry Hill island fit the bill. A place for music? That would be the Music Concourse, which has been the home to wonderful outdoor events since 1894. There’s also a Dutch windmill and tulip garden, a Victorian flower conservatory, a Giant Tree Fern Grove and, on the grounds, the California Academy of Sciences holds court with its swamps, reefs, rainforests, planetarium and penguins.

Tree trunk at GG Park

Tim and I spent our time one day slowly taking in the beauty of the Strybing Arboretum and Botanical Gardens. Home to more than 7,000 plant species that live in climates similar to that of San Francisco, the “environments” created include a Biblical Garden, a Redwood Trail and a Primitive Plant Garden, among others.

Here is a sampling of the pictures we took that day. I wish I knew what some of these beauties are; I just aimed and shot at whatever took my fancy. Hope you enjoy them — mostly, I hope you get a chance to go out and see this for yourself. There are a whole lot of reasons to see San Francisco. These are just a few.

Linda Dini Jenkins

Linda Dini Jenkins is a card-carrying Italophile, travel planner, freelance writer, and amateur photographer. Travel is her passion, so writing about her travels just comes naturally. She hopes all her travelers find a way to express their joys, surprises, and fears as they travel and gives every traveler a nifty journal to help smooth the way. Learn more…

The profession of book writing makes horse racing seem like a solid, stable business. — John Steinbeck

Tim and I were talking before breakfast this morning. Last week — including the weekend — was exhausting, what with work and volunteer stuff at our church. We’ve also been babysitting his Mom’s dog for two weeks and let me tell you, two dogs are more than just one more dog. I don’t know why this is so, but trust me on this.

Anyway, we were thinking about our travel schedule for the next few months. First we’re going to the SIBA (Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance) Trade Show down in Daytona, Florida at the end of the month, where Great Little Books, LLC will have a booth. We’re manning that booth (or “person-ing it” to be exact) in an effort to let the southern indie booksellers know all about our four magnificent titles: THE LONGBRIDGE DECISION, UP AT THE VILLA: TRAVELS WITH MY HUSBAND, TOO TALL ALICE and BEDTIME STORIES. Keep your fingers crossed — and if you’re an indie bookseller, please visit us at booth A6 and place a big order. Please.

Then in mid-October we’re going back up to Salem, MA to hear Margaret Marshall, Chief Justice of the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court talk about the 1629 Massachusetts Bay (Endecott) Charter, which established the right of self-government in the state. While we’re there, a dear friend is celebrating his 50^th birthday and we’ll be on hand to help him. We’ll also have dinner with Mario Scalzi, president of Parker Villas, so we’ll hear all about the business and will talk about George Clooney, The American and Abruzzo.

In between these two trips, it’s likely that Tim will have to go to meet with clients far and wide. And in early November, I am going to Italy. Yes! I will be going on a tour that Kathy McCabe, editor of Dream of Italy newsletter, has put together and you’ll be hearing more about that when I get back. Umbria in the fall. Harvest time. I can smell it and taste it already. Umbria has been a dream of mine for a long time, so who better to go with than a group put together by Dream of Italy? I’m ecstatic!

Tim even talked about going to England for Christmas — another crazy dream of mine — but I’m not sure that either one of us could handle that this year. We’ll see.

So where am I going with this? I’m not sure. But I do know that in this economy, these seem like bold moves. When we looked at this list of places and trips and the reasons for going — and this list doesn’t include the two trips to Italy in the Spring which, please God, can be done back-to-back because we don’t want to pay for airfare twice — we wondered what drives us. Is it courage? Faith? Unbridled stupidity? Or just a need (at least in my case) to combine the love of words with the love of travel into something that just might make me a career some day, finances be damned? Maybe.

Neither of us got a lot of support vis-à-vis pursuing our dreams when we were growing up. For instance, I was never encouraged to dream about marriage and family as a little girl; an only child, I was too busy taking care of my quirky extended family. I was a stay-at-home child whose primary pleasure was being in my room, reading and writing or scratching around on the violin. When my mother called upstairs to see what I was doing, my standard answer was, “Don’t worry Mom, I’m not having any fun.” That’s okay; it taught me how to be pretty self-sufficient and have a fairly high tolerance for other people’s craziness, skills that have served me well over the years in advertising agencies and on church committees.

Doing what I love

But as I got older and discovered that what I wanted to be was a writer, that discovery struck terror into my parents’ hearts. While I think (I hope) they were secretly pleased about what I was writing throughout my school years, I was never sure. I’d read something aloud and they’d utter some iteration of, “You wrote that??!!?” When I was a newly married woman in her early 20s, I gave up writing so that I could support my college-attending husband (now ex). And besides, it just wasn’t fittin’ for a married woman to sit around all day writing. Right?

Ten years later, freed from the marriage, I started up again and found to my amazement that a sheaf of old poems gained me access to the prestigious Bread Loaf Writers Conference in Middlebury VT. When I reminded my parents that I was going, my mother snapped, “Oh, that thing you have to pay for?” My lungs lost all their air.

My mother never lived to see either of my books published. My father chose never to come to one of my readings or to the performance of either of my plays. I had written one about the relationship between my mother and me (it had softened over the years after her death, as it always does) but even that wasn’t enough to get him in the audience. But here I am, still writing, adding the element of travel into the word exploration.

Yes, it’s a bit of a crazy life. I threw over the corporate scene in the early 1980s and have been freelancing ever since, some years more successful than others. When I decided to boldly step into the world of travel a decade ago, I kind of knew what I was in for. But I am in good company. Open a travel anthology and see what I mean. There’s life in those pages: adventure and discovery and danger and new ideas and history and great food and so much more. So I’ll continue to travel and write as long as I can and hope to keep myself and my audience entertained.

Thank you for being along for the crazy ride. Thank you for reading and commenting. It means more than you can ever know in this crazy life.

Buon viaggio!

Linda Dini Jenkins

Linda Dini Jenkins is a card-carrying Italophile, travel planner, freelance writer, and amateur photographer. Travel is her passion, so writing about her travels just comes naturally. She hopes all her travelers find a way to express their joys, surprises, and fears as they travel and gives every traveler a nifty journal to help smooth the way. Learn more…

Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.  — George Eliot

It’s finally here — the other side of Labor Day. That means that autumn can’t be far  behind. Since I was a little girl, autumn has been my favorite season. Cooler weather,  back to school, groups starting up again — scouts, orchestra, literary magazine. Even  now, there is always a sense of new beginnings in the fall. Lately I’ve been watching  the geese practicing their “V” formations, which they’ll use for real in a few weeks as  they migrate farther south. The garden is winding down and we bring in a small  bowl of tomatoes each morning, knowing that it will soon be our last. The roses —  which have stayed ridiculously long this year — are getting brown, as are the echinacea daisies and sweet hydrangeas.

I love fall so much that when Tim and I decided to get married, I asked him if we could wait to do it in the fall. And so on October 5, 1991 we tied the knot in beautiful Burlington, Vermont; our reception was at the Boathouse on Lake Champlain. Gorgeous fall colors, crisp fall air . . . we couldn’t have asked for a better day.

A few weeks before the wedding, however, it occurred to us that in all of our (my) careful long-distance planning (we had moved to Boston back in May, but still wanted a fall Vermont wedding) we had forgotten to plan a honeymoon. So we did a little scrambling and decided to explore some of our brand new state on our honeymoon — Nantucket, to be exact.

Nantucket in the fall is a treasure. The crowds have gone, the temps are cooler and the colors are magical. There’s a little extra energy in the water (and in the air) and everybody seems calmer once “high season” has passed. You can easily get into restaurants and, if you go before Columbus Day, most of the shops and galleries are still open.

We stayed in the then-nearly-new Nantucket Inn, out by the airport (remember the TV show Wings?!). We got a great deal on one of the cottages with a fireplace, with several of our meals included. We could swim in the pool and relax in the hot tub and still find time to explore the island, its restaurants and shops, and we did. We had a grand time at 21 Federal — I still remember the amazing pumpkin soup served in its own little pumpkin — and enjoyed The Brotherhood of Thieves for good burgers and beer a few days later. We brought our bicycles and enjoyed Nantucket’s many bicycle paths. And it was along these very paths that we almost got divorced.

Edible?

You see, Tim loves to discover new things. Places, people, museums, beaches . . . and mushrooms. October is mushroom season in Nantucket. I did not know this, or I might have chosen a less risky destination. Like a mall. But as we pedaled around the island together, we found myriad trails with all kinds of mushrooms by the side of the road. Big fat brown ones; beautiful spotted red ones; ugly black ones; tall high-stemmed psilocybes (which I was sure were hallucinogenic); creepy puffballs; little white buttons, and so on. The problem was, Tim wanted to eat them. All of them. He told me that the odds of our finding a poisonous one were very slim. Somehow, that wasn’t good enough for me.

Before too long, I took the lead on the biking and drove us straight over to a bookstore, where I quickly bought a

copy of Simon & Schuster’s Guide to Mushrooms. Five hundred and twelve pages of color plates were interesting but not very informative, when push came to shove. Almost every ‘shroom we plucked came with the warning, “Edibility is uncertain.” That was all I needed to hear. And, since we had been married less than a week and had not yet thought about doing a will, it was going to have to be good enough for Tim, too. He was not happy and, I suspect, tempted fate by trying a few when I was out of range.

I wish I could show you the photos we took of our  enormous and incredible harvest, which we proudly posed on a table outside our cottage. Alas, they were taken with a film camera and that album is still packed away  somewhere, even after living here in Richmond for nearly five years. Instead, I’m  sharing photos of The Mushrooms & Flora of September 2010, taken in our  backyard  and along the walking path that I tread every day with our dog, Maxine. I  still have  no idea what any of them are and whether they’re edible or not, and I’m not  about to  find out. I’m happy just to look at them and know that October, my favorite month, is not far behind.

Then summer fades and passes and October comes.  We’ll smell smoke then, and feel an unexpected sharpness, a thrill of nervousness, swift elation, a sense of sadness and departure. —  Thomas Wolfe

Buon viaggio!

Linda Dini Jenkins

Linda Dini Jenkins is a card-carrying Italophile, travel planner, freelance writer, and amateur photographer. Travel is her passion, so writing about her travels just comes naturally. She hopes all her travelers find a way to express their joys, surprises, and fears as they travel and gives every traveler a nifty journal to help smooth the way. Learn more…

Remember what Bilbo used to say: It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to. — J.R.R. Tolkein

Once we went out the door and ended up on the Piazza delle Erbe in Mantova (Mantua). It was raining and I had on

Ristoranti in Piazza delle Erbe

crop pants and rubber sandals and I was fighting the hydroplaning with every step and we had parked clear across the city from where we wanted to be, but never mind. Mantova is still a special place. The Gonzagas thought so in the 14th century, and made it one of Italy’s true artistic hubs. Reubens, Donatello and Pisanello owe much of their success to this shrewd family. The Roman poet Virgil supposedly hails from Mantova. And, also before the Gonzagas, the struggles between the Guelphs and the Ghibellines happened on Mantovan soil. I’m not much of a history buff, so you’ll have to look that one up. I only know that these names are very present in modern day Mantova, in museums and street signs and such.

Shakespeare was here, too, in his plays, at least. Remember that Romeo is exiled to Mantova after killing Tybalt in Romeo and Juilet? And the schoolmaster from The Taming of the Shrew is from Mantova. Finally, Verdi’s masterpiece, Rigoletto, is set in this city.

Mantova is in the region of Lombardy, in the north, and is surrounded by three man-made lakes (boringly named Superiore, di Mezzo and Inferiore) that receive their waters from the beautiful Mincio.  The mists from these lakes can create quite an atmosphere — romantic or melancholy, depending on your disposition — and there is much to see within the compact centro storico of the city.

Palazzo Ducale in the rain

On that fateful, rainy day when we parked on the wrong side of the city, we headed immediately for the Palazzo Ducale, the massive building that houses the entire history of the Gonzagas, Mantova’s ruling family from the 14^th to the 18^th centuries. Their military skills and habit of marrying into other wealthy and important families brought them fame, power and the respect of the finest artists of the day. The Palazzo, actually comprising a number of different buildings, is not beautiful in the ordinary sense, but its 30,000+ square feet of artifacts, frescoes, tapestries, staircases and unusual rooms make it worth seeing. Don’t miss the Galleria degli Specchi (Hall of Mirrors) and Appartamento dei Nani (Apartment of the Dwarves), not to be confused with the Sala dei Gigante (Room of the Giants) over at the Gonzaga’s Palazzo Te, which also houses the city’s Museo Civico with its coins and medallions and other artifacts of the family’s wealth and power.

Of course, there’s a church to see: the Sant’Andrea Basilica, the polar opposite of the usual big-city Italian cathedral. In this case, a Renaissance façade fronts a very simple 15^th-century church, the results of which are startling to the eye. The crypt has a reliquary (of course) that allegedly contains the blood of Christ, brought to Mantova by Longinus, the Roman soldier who pierced Christ’s side on the cross. If you happen to be in town on the feast day (March 18, for San’Anselmo) you can see it paraded through town. And you’ll be charmed by the Rotunda di San Lorenzo, a small church in the round that dates from the 11^th century. (And we think Jamestown is old . . .)

Rotunda di San Lorenzo

There’s a lot going on in Mantova. Since 1997, Mantova has hosted five days of readings, meetings with writers, shows and concerts during its September Festivaletteratura, the most important literary event in Europe. Writers from around the world are invited to come and speak and read and partake in the festivities. The third weekend of July features a jazz festival. And the Piazza delle Erbe is the scene of a major food market, Mondays through Saturdays from 8 am to 1 p.m. On Thursday mornings, you’ll find an expanded market that includes clothing, housewares and even more kinds of food and goodies.

Nifty restaurant walls

As an Italian movie buff, I have always wanted the opportunity to say to some young, handsome signore, “Ciao, Marcello.” So very Sofia Loren, eh? And I got my chance in Mantova. After the Palazzo Ducale (and after drying out a bit in the lavatory) we decided that it was time for lunch. So we headed back to the Piazza delle Erbe (square of the herbs) to find a suitable place. We found it. Ristorante Pizzera Osteria delle Erbe was a find. A small, narrow restaurant on the square, under the porticos, with an outside caffe (not in use on this particular day) and a welcome inside. There was a huge window that opened up to the outside, but we chose a table in the back among the artily stuccoed brick walls and copper cooking artifacts. The wines warmed us up right away and attitudes adjusted for the better. The food was perfect: inexpensive, fresh and local. Homemade papardelle with sage and butter sauce, tortellini stuffed with pumpkin, local fish, and risotto. This area has been famous for its risotto since the 1500s. The truffle risotto and funghi risotto are my absolute favorites.

Ciao, Marcello!

And Marcello? He was our waiter. A handsome, delightful young man who spoke very good English (although he said he was embarrassed by it, he shouldn’t be) and who seemed to be enjoying us as much as we were enjoying him. Throughout most of Europe, being a waiter is an honorable profession, unlike in the U.S,, where it is often a holding place for something “better.” But here, service is a time-honored profession and often results in ownership of the establishment if you stick with it long enough. Marcello, however, had a bigger dream. He wanted to be a waiter, but in America. San Francisco, to be exact. Oh, how we tried to talk him out of it! Now, San Francisco is a great city, but the whole waiter thing would have been a massive disappointment to him. Several months later, we learned that he had changed his mind and was going to stay in his native Italy. Disaster averted!

Anyway, we lingered for a long time at the restaurant, enjoying caffe and dolci, taking pictures, drying out, but then it was time to go. Marcello walked us out and I finally got to say my line. Too softly, at first, and then I blurted it out in my best carefree Italian heroine voice, Ciao, Marcello! And ciao, Mantova. A presto!

Buon viaggio!

Linda Dini Jenkins

Linda Dini Jenkins is a card-carrying Italophile, travel planner, freelance writer, and amateur photographer. Travel is her passion, so writing about her travels just comes naturally. She hopes all her travelers find a way to express their joys, surprises, and fears as they travel and gives every traveler a nifty journal to help smooth the way. Learn more…

I can’t write five words but that I change seven. — Dorothy Parker

The William Cabell House, aka The Porches

In the spirit of Virginia Woolf, who was a strong advocate for writing women to have “a room of one’s own,” I recently applied for a stay at a nearby writers’ retreat.  Last Thursday I arrived at The Porches after an hour and a half on the road from Richmond, Virginia. Located in Norwood, The Porches (one of the Cabell houses in Nelson County) was built in 1854 and offers a warm welcome, clean rooms and all the comforts of home for writers in need of peace and quiet. What is doesn’t offer is all the stresses of home. Thank you, Trudy Hale, for renovating this lovely old farmhouse and opening it up to writers back in 2006. An inspired idea.

On the trip over, the skies were threatening. We’d been experiencing late afternoon thunder bumpers and dramatic rains this week; I hoped they wouldn’t interfere with my all-too-short (four day) writers retreat.

Road signs I saw along the way:

Barn on the way

• Voted the Best Public Storage on the Planet!

• Google doesn’t have all the answers (on a church)

• Going Out of Business Sale. Today!

On Hummingbirds

Have you ever heard the sound of a dozen hummingbirds attacking a small red sugar-water  feeder? Stop thinking sweet and romantic, folks. It’s terrifying. One or two at the feeder . . . cute. But a dozen is a gang and you know how gangs behave. Territorial disputes abound. There are winners and losers. And these miniature monsters are very loud in battle. Twenty four furiously beating wings create an ominous, unearthly sound. And they fly around and at anything they think might get in their way. Like you. I’ve been buzz-bombed into the house twice now. I may have to rethink this bird business.

On Beauty

My own little writing space

I washed my hair today for the first time in three days. But we are supposed to be quiet here, so I don’t want to use the hairdryer I brought and then get yelled at. These being serious writers, I have heard no noise since arriving. Not a peep. So now my hair looks ridiculous, like Little Lulu’s, but with flippy bangs, too.

In light of this new-found naturalness, I have decided to be bold and only apply a little blush to my cheeks and, for heaven’s sake, mascara only on the upper lashes. I feel absolutely bohemian.

On Wildlife

Besides the militaristic hummingbirds, there is a lot of other wildlife here. I discovered the first of it in my shower stall at 10:30 the first night. I was wearing nothing on my feet, which always somehow makes it worse. And these things always seem more dramatic in the dark, don’t they?

Anyway, I was going to the sink for my nightly ablutions when I saw it: a bevy of beating legs attached to a 5-inch long black millipede, its rear, bow-legged pincers swinging wildly, like a caboose off its track. It was in the shower, behind the glass door, but this provided little comfort, knowing that I’d have to use very same shower in the morning. And besides, how would I ever get to sleep with this creature wriggling a mere 30 feet away?

At first I thought I could wish it away if only I did what I came to do. So I quickly washed my face and brushed my teeth. But I couldn’t go near the toilet, which was next to the shower. So, in a state of supreme bladder alertness, I realized that it was him or me. One of us would not make it through the night. I hoped it was him.

I looked around for something to kill it with. There was nothing in this very spare bathroom that would double as a poker. So I carefully reached into the shower, opening the door only a crack, found the faucet and blasted the thing with hot water. It flinched and ran around wildly, which was absolutely not my intention. The way these things move just repulses me. Besides, I realized that a lack of water was probably what brought him into the house, anyway, so this was like manna from heaven.

What was Plan B? There was no way I was going to pick the thing up and fling it into the toilet. It was HUGE, people, and extremely gross. I was beside myself. And then I saw it. My weapon of choice, on the floor behind the toilet— a green plastic bottle of Lime Away. I picked it up and, carefully opening the shower door again, blasted the thing with about a cup of toxic soup. It was not happy and soon did not have that smirk on its little bug face that it had when it was being drenched with water. It knew I was serious this time. I sprayed like a lunatic until the thing stopped moving.

When I thought it was safe, I lowered myself onto the toilet and did what I came to do, never taking my eyes off this polypodded devil. I flushed. It stopped. I opened the shower door to assess the damage and, to my horror, it moved again. (This scene was right out of one of my most terrifying theatrical experiences, Wait Until Dark. I didn’t need this right now.) I leapt back, grabbed the bottle and sprayed again, wildly, until I could spray no more. It looked still. I turned off the light and left, hoping to catch at least a few minutes of sleep.

The next morning (4 a.m. to be exact) when my bladder was at it again, I thought about going back into the bathroom to see if he was dead, had moved on, or had called in reinforcements through the drain. But there was that darkness thing again. So I waited until first light, and then slowly crept in.

My friends, do you know what Lime Away does to millipedes? It turns them red. And shrinks them in half. And makes them very, very dead. But I still had to lift the thing out of the shower and there was still nothing with which to do that. After a few minutes of feeling extremely sorry for myself, I wadded up some toilet paper, prayed that I wouldn’t feel anything, and lifted him up and into the toilet with lightning speed. I flushed. It was over. I rinsed the shower down well, not knowing what Lime Away might do to me, and took a victory shower. I had won this round.

Since then, I have killed a dozen assorted spiders and three stink bugs, seen two different varieties of lizard on the

Maizie, hard at work

porch, heard about a previous tenant’s encounter with a black snake, made friends with the dog, Maizie, who I think I would fire at this point, and ignored the dead baby bird that is resting (feet and beak up to the skies) just under my window. Oh, and I saw a deer  by the barn. We encountered each other when I walked around to the side of the house; it made a startled noise, like the sound of two wood blocks clapping. Who knew?  Maizie sleeps on the porch, missing it all, dreaming of belly rubs.

On Food

I don’t have to think much about meal planning here. There are microwaves for reheating and electric tea kettles on every floor. There is a full, well-equipped kitchen downstairs with three refrigerators, a small stove, a sink, a dish and cutlery cupboard and a cabinet with staples put out by Trudy and previous guests, consisting of tea, coffee, olive oil, vinegar, sugar, honey and so forth.

Here is what I brought with me:

• One package of low fat white cheddar flavored corn cakes
• A six pack of low sodium V8 juice
• An eight pack of Starbucks VIA coffee (extra bold Italian Roast flavor — I’m insane)
• 24 Mini Moos for the coffee; I should have brought 48
• A jar of organic crunchy peanut butter (exactly how big is one serving?)
• A bag of Cracker Barrel Extra Sharp Cheese Sticks, made with 2% milk
• An eight pack of Musselman’s Raspberry Acai applesauce, no sugar added
• A six pack of Kashi TLC Cherry Dark Chocolate Chewy Granola Bars
• A box of Kashi Heart to Heart Oat Flakes & Blueberry Clusters cereal
• Four Horizon Organic Reduced Fat Milk boxes for the cereal
• One bottle of Bella Sera Pinot Grigio

I could have used more wine.

On Writing

Art in the garden

But I came to write. The distractions are few, given that there’s no cell phone service and only intermittent wireless, provided by satellite. I guess dial-up was this slow, but that seems a long time ago. Anyway . . . I tell myself that I came to write, not to check my Facebook page or play Solitaire. There is a TV and some CDs and a piano downstairs, but nobody has gone near them. So we read and we write. Once in a while we go outside for air, one by one, or emerge from our rooms to gather up things for a meal.

There are only five of us here, and each has her own room. There is someone from Baltimore, who is writing about midwifery. Another from Ohio, writing her grandmother’s story. A gal from Kentucky is writing a novel. And the last one to arrive is from Charlottesville for a few days, to put the finishing touches on a young adult fantasy piece that she needs to get to an agent in a few weeks. We are all so different, and yet we have this common need to put one word in front of another and hope that it is good. We are different ages and races; we have lived in wildly different places (from Ghana and Haiti to San Diego and New York). Yet we are somehow the same in the shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. And we have each found that we can breathe here a little easier than we can at home, with nothing to do but read and write and think and take some simple nourishment.

Miraculously, I started writing on the very first day, outlining the piece about Verona that I am working on for Dream of Italy, Kathy McCabe’s wonderful bi-monthly love letter to the country that I am so in love with myself. It is a gift to have no outside distractions, but of course we give ourselves plenty of those, even without technology. Is Tim okay? Is he eating? Is he remembering to feed and walk Maxine? Does he notice that I’m gone? What if he doesn’t? These absurd questions roll around in my head enough so that I have to make an effort to keep them away. I laugh. It is hard to do what you need to do sometimes. I thank him silently for understanding. And then I write some more.

On Recommending

If you have a serious writing project that you can articulate to Trudy in an e-mail, by all means, apply for a residency at The Porches. She rents most typically by the week, but from time to time there are openings for short-term visitors like me. Bring your writing group here  — she loves that. She also hosts writing weekends here with guest facilitators from time to time. So check out her website and give yourself a break from your daily, interruptive routine — and come to write and be in this glorious part of the world. It’s affordable and exactly what you need. Just don’t forget the Lime Away . . .

Buon viaggio!

Linda Dini Jenkins

Linda Dini Jenkins is a card-carrying Italophile, travel planner, freelance writer, and amateur photographer. Travel is her passion, so writing about her travels just comes naturally. She hopes all her travelers find a way to express their joys, surprises, and fears as they travel and gives every traveler a nifty journal to help smooth the way. Learn more…

If we had to say what writing is, we would define it essentially as an act of courage. — Cynthia Ozick

My mother’s mother, Ida, stood about four foot eleven inches tall  and wore a size 3 and a  half shoe. The entire time that I knew her  (some 25 years) she wore variations of the classic  “little old lady”  shoe – chunky heeled, high vamp tie shoes that were  distinguished as  “Everyday” (plain white, navy or black leather)  and “Dressy” (black leather shoes with a velvet  vamp and decorative  little  holes). For many years, we drove from our house in Massapequa,  New York into New York City to the Dr. Scholl’s store on  34^th Street. Grandma would get her  foot measured professionally (did we think it had grown since last year?) and then view the  new  selections and pick out what she wanted. They had to be special  ordered, of course, so there was a return trip back to pick them up. All in all, this was a very expensive proposition for a very middle class working family. But hey, Grandma needed shoes, right?

Progress came when Dr. Scholl’s opened a store in the suburbs. Hempstead was still a haul, but not the teeth-shattering, anxiety provoking trip that going into Manhattan was for my family. One year, maybe 1963 or 1964, when Mom and I were on the “return trip” to pick up what Grandma had ordered, we stopped for a few minutes at a bookstore. I was about 14 years old, already an experienced angst-ridden young poet, and was scouring the shelves for something suitably shocking to get my mother to buy for me (these were the days of $1.00 a week allowances, so I couldn’t buy much for myself).

Anyway, Mom was getting impatient, standing in the front of the  store and waiting for me to come out of the stacks. Then I found  it: 100 Selected Poems,  by e.e. cummings. Originally published  in 1923, this was the first Evergreen Edition, from 1959, and it  bore a price tag of $1.75. I still have my copy, unglued cover and  all. I flipped through its pages and was very pleased with my  choice. Here was a book that, by its very publication, told me that  it was all right to break the rules. Lower case letters. Lines that  stretched across and up and down the page. No discernable  rhyme scheme. This would do nicely.

Of course, I had a passing acquaintance with cummings already, and had adopted his lower cases in some of my own poetry (as did most teen-aged girls at that time). But here (as was required in my household) was proof that this was legitimate. And that poetry itself could be lovely and nonsensical and horrifying — all in the same line.

I brought the book up to the cash register and my mother met me. She saw the little purple-covered book and rolled her eyes. But then something happened. The man behind the cash register looked at the book too, and then at me, and then back at the book. “You dig cummings, eh?” he said. My heart stopped. No one — not even my teachers, who knew I was an aspiring writer — had ever asked me what I “dug” before. I nodded feebly, trying to look as cool and grown-up as I possibly could, no mean feat for a chubby, introverted teenager whose idea of a good time was to actually get to listen to an entire side of the latest Peter, Paul and Mary album in peace. “Let’s see how much you know,” he went on. I was doomed. Then my mother got interested, clearly enjoying this.

He opened the book and began reading, “Buffalo Bill’s defunct . . .” and when he got to the line, “. . . and what I want to know is . . .” he stopped. Cold. And he looked at me. And my mother glared at me. And for a split second the world came to an end. And then, out of nowhere known to me, came these words from my mouth: “how do you like your blueeyed boy, Mister Death?” The clerk smiled and handed me the book. My mother was gobsmacked. I said thank you to the man and walked out the door, ahead of her, trembling, but trying to remain calm. I had been tested by a total stranger and passed. I knew something. I had all I could do not to cry as I made my way out into the sunshine.

Years later, I still ask myself where the hell that line came from. Sure, I had heard the poem before but I was not (and still am not) a memorizer. Somehow, that line of poetry stuck in my head, even at that early age. Even before I knew that I really would make my life among words. Even before I began to fill my rooms with books in earnest.

This is powerful stuff, poetry. So tell me: What poems do you remember? What lines still startle you? Keep you awake at night? Provide comfort in difficult situations? Make you smile? Beg to be shared? I’d love to know. Words are a kind of journey. Please take us with you.

Buon viaggio!

Linda Dini Jenkins

Linda Dini Jenkins is a card-carrying Italophile, travel planner, freelance writer, and amateur photographer. Travel is her passion, so writing about her travels just comes naturally. She hopes all her travelers find a way to express their joys, surprises, and fears as they travel and gives every traveler a nifty journal to help smooth the way. Learn more…

The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.  — G.K. Chesterton

We had been on the road for nearly two weeks. First we flew up to Boston from Richmond to spend a glorious few days with our friends in Salem. Then we took the train (I love the train) down to Mystic, CT for a week to visit with Tim’s mother, who was summering up in her old neighborhood. Our ultimate goal was to drive her and her cockapoo, Taffy, back down to Virginia at the end of the trip. In between, there’d be lots of time to visit with friends and get acquainted with this year’s crop of scallops and lobster. I confess I did a darn good job of it, too.

By the time we packed up on the last day, having washed and changed the linens and dumped the garbage, and so on, we knew that we would not be making the trip down in one day. It’s normally a 10 – 12 hour drive, with a few necessary stops, and we were getting much too late a start. We’d have to spend the night along the way (on the other side of New York City!) and we’d have to find a place that would take pets. As first Mom, then Tim, drove, I searched the internet — thank God for smart phones — for an interesting place to stay and then for a pet-friendly hotel.

As 5:00 rolled around, we were traveling through rural Maryland, exhausted from driving in and out of rainstorms and then sudden, bright sunshine. It was a strange day on the road. But then I found it: Annapolis. The Loews Hotel in Annapolis. Historic city. Pet-friendly hotel. Reasonable prices. Okay . . . we headed their way.

Sweet Annapolis

We drove into the city and I was immediately charmed by its antique houses and brick downtown, built around two circles: Church Circle and State Circle. Separated, of course. Most known for being the home of the United States Naval Academy, Annapolis is also home to St. John’s College (one of two Great Books Colleges, where students read over 130 great works of world literature during their four year stay — its sister college is in Santa Fe, NM). It’s also a place that I’m going back to, because it looks like there are many, many opportunities to feast and stroll among its wide array of quaint shops and restaurants.

Tim pulled up in front of the Loews and I jumped out to find out if they had a room available for the night. They did. And they were very excited to meet their new four-legged guest. Taffy received his own welcome kit: a Frisbee, a food mat, some treats, a brass bone-shaped collar charm, and lots of rubs. The room was terrific and we were unpacked in no time. Mom wanted to relax a little, have a drink and stay with Taffy. Tim and I were eager to do a little exploring, so we left them, promising to bring Mom something back for dinner. We didn’t get far.

Tim spotted a stately brick detached building virtually next door to the hotel. We went in and could not believe our eyes. Crush Winehouse, at 114 West Street, is the only true wine bar in Annapolis, providing opportunities for its patrons to not only taste, but also buy, fine wines. As the brochure says, “ . . . affordable, premium and uncommon . . . in a way that is fun, social, and unpretentious.” Its enomatic server allows patrons to sample a broad variety of wines by the glass (mostly Italian — I love that about this place!) that are typically only sold by the bottle. So you get a rare “try before you buy” experience.

And as if an array of handcrafted, artiginal wines was not enough, they also offer food to be savored along with the wines in the beautifully appointed lounge area. The menu, created by Chef Jon Rosa of San Francisco’s Cordon Bleu Culinary Academy, is based on fresh and seasonal ingredients. And his selection of handmade Parfection Chocolates, another Maryland enterprise, is out of this world.  The menu is small — perhaps 20 items at any given time — but each item is a masterpiece.

We began with Prosciutto Wrapped Dates with Truffled Honey, then moved on to an Asparagus and Mozarella Bruschetta. Tim had a Tuna Tartare which he said was out of this world. After sampling the earthy almonds and tangy olives, I had to try the Lavender Crème Brulee. All were highly memorable. We brought Mom back a Crispy Warm Duck Salad on Arugula with White Truffle Vinaigrette, which she ate greedily and determined that it was among the best duck she had ever had.

So although we went out expecting to find a nice pub or local Italian restaurant, we found a bit of nirvana. Crush’s founders, Bob Laggini and his partner, Janet Besanceney, have created something very special — a European Wine Bar in the heart of Annapolis. Intimate, warm, educational and fun. And our server, Sam — himself a student at St. John’s College — was very helpful in guiding us to proper food and wine pairings and giving us the heads-up on what we should not miss that night. We’ll be back — I suggest you go, too.

Buon viaggio!

Linda Dini Jenkins

Linda Dini Jenkins is a card-carrying Italophile, travel planner, freelance writer, and amateur photographer. Travel is her passion, so writing about her travels just comes naturally. She hopes all her travelers find a way to express their joys, surprises, and fears as they travel and gives every traveler a nifty journal to help smooth the way. Learn more…

“Traveling in the company of those we love is home in motion.” — Leigh Hunt

My beautiful Campari

It all started with the drink. I’ve adopted an Italian favorite as my summer drink this year. A tall, cold Campari and soda with a twist of lime. It’s the prettiest drink you’ve ever seen and — although I’ve been told it’s an acquired taste — it goes down very easy for me and it refreshes. In this summer of consistent 90-plus temperatures, that’s a good thing. But sitting on our deck, nursing the aforementioned beverage and twirling the end of the lemon patterned tablecloth that I bought in Sorrento a few years ago, I wondered why the hell I wasn’t in Italy. And then I wondered where I would want to be if I were. And I thought of Ferrara, that bicycle-mad city in the north.

I had gone to Ferrara the first time in May 2003 — May 25, to be exact. It was our friend’s

Bicycles everywhere!

birthday and that’s where he wanted to go. So we took a side trip from our villa in Sermide and drove the hour to Ferrara where, it just so happened, the Palio was taking place. How lucky can you get?

The Palio of St. George takes place on the last Sunday of May and begins with an indescribable parade from the Castello Estense to the palio grounds, where donkey races, horse races and other athletic competitions pit one comune against another in true medieval festival tradition. Representing the inhabitants of the various neighborhoods, or comuni, the Ferrarese walk regally through town dressed as royalty, as military men, as religious, as families, as entertainers . . . the only place you’ll see finer costumes is at a major opera house.

Palio parade

And when these Italians are in costume, it’s like you’ve walked into a Renaissance painting. This was a stunning and surreal sight to happen upon. While there were no tickets available for the main event, we did get to see the preliminary donkey races and were there long enough to scoop up a few of the palio flags. Quite a day.

Hot Air Balloon Festival poster

I was there again last September — this time, scheduled perfectly for the hot air balloons. In recent years, Ferrara has become the center of hot air ballooning and I must tell you that it is absolutely otherworldly to see Professor Marvel’s airships silently gliding over this old, historic city. What a crazy juxtaposition!

"I want to go to there . . ."

Ferrara is one of those remarkably well-located cities in Italy for visitors. On the same rail line as Bologna, Padova and Venice, Ferrara is the capital of its province, located in the region of Emilia-Romagna and situated on an extension of the Po River called the Po di Volano. A UNESCO Heritage Site, Ferrara is a beautiful walled city (the walls were begun in 1493) and is home to the second oldest university in Italy, which was established in 1393. Copernicus, a local boy, was a graduate of the University of Ferrara.

Tim and I went to Ferrara with our friends Jerry and Sharon and we were on a kind of mission. First we found the Jewish Cemetery near the city walls off Corso Porta Mare. It is a monument to the Ferrarese who died at Auschwitz (remember the movie The Garden of the Finzi-Continis?) and a reminder of the huge Jewish community that once thrived in the city. After that, we went looking for the old Synagogue and Jewish Museum, located in the heart of the medieval center of the city. This area was part of the Jewish Quarter in which the Jews were separated from the rest of the city from 1627 until 1859. After we found those, we were going to have lunch in the Osteria del Ghetto. Well, we timed it perfectly: the synagogue and museo were closed, so we only got to read the signs outside. But the restaurant was open for business and it was terrific.

Located on Via Vittoria, right in the heart of the Hebraic Ghetto of Ferrara, Osteria del Ghetto offers up carefully made regional and seasonal specialties, including mushrooms, pumpkin-stuffed pastas, horse, pork, wild boar, lamb and so on. And the desserts are spectacular, favoring marscapone cheese, fruit and chestnut honey. Add to that a wine list of 150+ selections, and you’ve got good reason to linger a while. Which we did.

Wall o' wine at Al Brindisi

After lunch we needed a walk, so we continued on about four blocks to Via degli Adelardi where we found the oldest “hostaria” in the world. According to the Guinness Book of Records, Al Brindisi was already known in 1435 and had an impressive list of patrons, among them the artist Titian and Torquato Tasso, the Sorrentine poet who spent some time in the Ferrara looney bin during his bout with insanity. (Hopefully, it had nothing to do with the wine selection . . .)

Apparently, Copernicus not only graduated from university in Ferrara, but he also lived in the first floor of the Al Brindisi building for a while. And we also learned that in 1973, on the occasion of Copernicus’ 500^th birthday, both Pope John Paul II and Cardinal Wiszinsky of Poland visited the hostaria. We spent a fair amount of time talking to the current owner, who has had the establishment handed down to him, as did his father before him. He loves American jazz and knows a whole lot about wines. We had a great time talking with him, but had to move on eventually.

The castello and the moat

The city has lots to offer. In 2006 Ferrara was named as a headquarters of the Italian Hermitage Museum — only the fifth city in the world to be linked with the iconic Russian institution. The city is anchored by the incredible Castello Estense, the defensive fortress of the Este dynasty which ruled the countryside for 400 years and produced — in addition to parks, palaces, and gardens — the duchess Lucrezia Borgia. A towering building constructed of the city’s famous rose-colored brick, Castello Estense is surrounded by a moat and drawbridges, while its four tall bastions keep a watchful on the city’s citizens. But this is no ordinary ruin of a castle. With its frescoed walls and frescoed, vaulted ceilings, court kitchens and apartments, a loggia, garden and chapels, the Castello Estense is a magnificent structure that encapsulates some 500 years of history.

And let’s not forget the overseer of the original “bonfire

Scary Savonarola

of the vanities,” Giralomo Savonarola, the 15^th Century Dominican priest and political reformer who was another of Ferrara’s native sons. Oh, he had a tough time of it: accused of heresy, excommunicated and finally both hung and burned. His likeness still stands in one of the piazzas, reminding us that life under the Medicis could be a bit uneven.

Other attractions include the University of Ferrara, the old City Hall with its Renaissance campanile, and the Palazzo Schifanoia, built in 1385 for the Este family, with its frescoes depicting the life of Borso d’Este, the signs of the zodiac and allegorical representations of the months. And there’s so much more. The certosa (a Carthusian monastery), Corpus Domini Monastery, several more Renaissance palaces, a dozen or more churches . . . just a typical little Italian city. Not.

So as I sip my Campari here in Vriginia, I realize that Ferrara is just another one of those magical places that I need to go back to, like so many other places I’ve seen in my Italian travels. Like Lucca, Sorrento, Verona, Padova. Sigh. Once is not enough. And bring on the cappellaci di zucca!

Buon viaggio!

Linda Dini Jenkins

Linda Dini Jenkins is a card-carrying Italophile, travel planner, freelance writer, and amateur photographer. Travel is her passion, so writing about her travels just comes naturally. She hopes all her travelers find a way to express their joys, surprises, and fears as they travel and gives every traveler a nifty journal to help smooth the way. Learn more…

It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them. — Ralph Waldo Emerson

Tim and I went home for a few days last week.

The Friendship of Salem

That sounds odd, even to me, since Tim grew up in New Jersey and Connecticut and I grew up in New York. But I realize now that while we can be “at home” in many places — and we have been — there’s always one place that really takes you in. That accepts you unconditionally, warts and all. One place that opens its arms and lets you revel in its history, its successes, its failures, its politics, its dreams and its people for a time. That lets you make a mark if you want to or just sit back and enjoy the ride, if that’s more your style. Salem, Massachusetts, our home for nearly 11 years, is such a place.

Salem's Native Son

We lived at the corner of Bott’s Court and Essex Street in a three-story gambrel house built in 1735 by the Pickering family of Salem. During that time we either became members of or were active on the boards of a raft of organizations: The Salem Athenaeum, Hamilton Hall, Historic Salem, The House of Seven Gables, Peabody Essex Museum . . . there was never a lack of things to do or to get involved in. Sometimes it nearly killed us, but we never felt ignored. That’s the beauty of community. That, and its people. And the people of Salem have been wonderful, cantankerous, creative, stubborn, enterprising, civic-minded characters for more than 300 years. (Forget those pesky witch trials, which really had nothing to do with witches. They were more or less precipitated by teenage hysteria that paved the way nicely for a political land grab. But I digress . . .)

We left town almost five years ago, after many battles — some more successful than others — with state and local governments and local organizations. We saw progress made and we saw progress thwarted. Preservation is always a sticky issue, and it is no different in Salem. Were we obstructionists, standing in the way of progress? I don’t think so. Once a beautiful building is gone, it’s gone forever. Once 200-year-old trees are cut down, you have to wait a mighty long time for replacements. Once you start pulling up ancient paving stones and replacing them with asphalt . . . well, you get the idea. Anyway, we, like a lot of other folks, spent a fair amount of time fighting the powers that be. So we wondered what it would be like to come back this time. We were delighted.

62 on Wharf Appetizers: home-made mortadella, bruschetta and arancini

New restaurants have come into town, and we ate at several of them: 62 on Wharf, Gulu-Gulu and Coven to name just three. New retail shops have arrived and are delighting not only Salemites, but folks from across the whole North Shore, as well. I personally did my bit for the local economy in J.Mode, Roost, and Two Girls. The Old Salem Jail has finally been repurposed and will offer condos and a brand new restaurant (The Great Escape!). New small businesses are streaming into town, adding to the city’s tax base and offering much-needed services. The old Salem Willows park is still alive and kicking, and although I didn’t get a chance to play Skee-Ball at the arcade this time, I’m delighted to report that it continues to provide a challenge (and the silliest prizes ever) for a new generation. And Hobbs still serves up its homemade taffy, popcorn and ice cream. Things could be a lot worse.

Hobbs Lives!!

Of course, it’s not all a success. The new courthouse looks like a giant blight on the landscape (there’s always one, right?) and Ft. Lee is as overgrown as ever, despite Tim’s attempts (with his friend Mike Williamson) to keep it cut back and healthy. I hear there are always new battles to be fought, and so it goes. Life in Salem: never a dull moment. A wonderful housing stock just a 30-minute train ride from Boston . . . deep history going back to the original settlers . . . lots to do and see (even apart from the witch stuff) . . . and some of the most famous and important names in Massachusetts, including Bowditch, Derby, Crowninshield, Hawthorne, Ropes, Peabody, Saltonstall, Putnam and Storey, who got their starts (or their fame) there.

Here’s a typical Salem story: we were standing outside of our old house and Tim was taking a picture of me. A man was walking up the court and he saw us switch places, so that I could then take a picture of Tim. He stopped and asked if he could take a picture of both of us in front of the house. When we told him it was our old house, he insisted, and took several.

Here’s another: our old neighbors — who arranged for more cocktail parties, dinners and get-togethers while we were there than we could ever have imagined — are now arguing over who will house us when we come back next. It’s as if we never left. Nobody missed a beat. We even got into a scrape with the local power plant on our last day. It was just like old times. Thanks, Salem! Who knows? Maybe we’ll be back . . .

Meanwhile, try some of our favorites: In a Pig’s Eye (especially Friday afternoons, when Eric Reardon, the owners’ son plays a mean blues guitar); the Lyceum on Church Street, where Alexander Graham Bell sent the first telephone call; a ferry ride from Salem into Boston; and a side trip to Rocky Neck in Gloucester, the historic artists colony and fishing village made famous by George Clooney in A PERFECT STORM. Go. Peace. Shalom. Salem.

Buon viaggio!

Linda Dini Jenkins

Linda Dini Jenkins is a card-carrying Italophile, travel planner, freelance writer, and amateur photographer. Travel is her passion, so writing about her travels just comes naturally. She hopes all her travelers find a way to express their joys, surprises, and fears as they travel and gives every traveler a nifty journal to help smooth the way. Learn more…

Make voyages! Attempt them. There’s nothing else. — Tennessee Williams

I made a voyage the other day, and it was bon. A few months ago, the local sailing club invited Tim and me on a two-hour cruise (as opposed to Gilligan’s three-hour cruise) along the York River. Of course we said yes. Sometimes the best discoveries are found only a short distance from home.

Although the cruise was scheduled to leave the dock at 2:00, four of us piled into the car at 10:30 for the 90-minute drive from our house to Yorktown. Tim and I and our friends Sharon and Jerry decided it would be fun to have lunch before boarding, especially since we were not at all excited about the prospect of beer and hoagies on board. So we picked out a place from among the online choices, and headed down to Yorktown and the Carrot Tree Kitchens.

Historically, Yorktown is probably most famous for being the site of the siege and surrender of British General Cornwallis to American General George Washington during the American Revolutionary War (in 1781), effectively ending the war a short time later. Yorktown figured prominently again during the American Civil War when it served as a port for both the North and the South, depending on who held the city at that particular time. Today, Yorktown is one of the three cities that comprise the “Historic Triangle,” along with Williamsburg and Jamestown.

The historic Cole-Digges House

The first thing we learned on our expedition is that the York River is not a river at all; it is an estuary. This we discovered while reading the menu in our charming little restaurant selection, Carrot Tree Kitchens.  Itself an historic destination, Carrot Tree is housed in the oldest building in Yorktown, the Cole Digges Houses, circa 1720. Digges, the son of the most successful tobacco grower in the area, bought the property that the house stands on in 1713 because of its proximity to the wharves and warehouses on nearby Read Street. A merchant by trade, Digges did quite well.

You cannot believe how good this is!

In the early 21st Century, the National Park Service — in its efforts to preserve the building — asked for proposals from “low-impact” businesses to use the space. Because of this stipulation, the Carrot Tree (which opened in 2003) cannot have commercial dishwashing or high heat sources on the premises. Yep – every dish is washed by hand (okay, there’s a lot of plastic used, but still . . .). Anyway, as you can imagine, carrots feature prominently on the menu. The sandwiches and veggie tart are outstanding, as is the turkey burger. The carrot salad is unique (sliced, cooked carrots; not the usual shredded and raw) and delicious. And the carrot cake is the best any of us have ever tasted. And that’s saying something, since carrot cake is a major food group for me. Great service and good food in an adorable setting. What a way to start our adventure!

The Schooner Alliance

We walked over to the dock after lunch and before long were able to board the Alliance, the main entertainment for the afternoon.  A 105’ gaff rigged schooner modeled after similar ships in use from the 1850s, the Alliance was built in 1995 in Palm Coast, Florida by Treworgy Yachts. Originally working as a charter ship in the Maine Windjammer fleet under the name Kathryn B., she was bought by Yorktown Sailing Charters in 2005 and renamed the Alliance, in honor of the French-American alliance that was instrumental in our war of independence. No electric winches here; all riggings are set manually and day sailors can help the crew of three however much they want. (Or don’t. I for instance, am a purely ornamental sailor.). The Alliance makes three sailings daily from Yorktown’s Riverwalk Landing from April ‘til October. She winters in the Caribbean, where week-long charters are available for up to eight guests. I think the captain, Greg Lohse, may have gotten at least one week booked during this outing. . .

Ahoy, mateys!

The sunset cruises must be magnificent, and maybe that’s the next adventure in Yorktown. Noiselessly navigating the waters, drink in hand (or not), under full sail, imagining life at sea in years gone by . . . not something you do everyday. As we cruised back into the harbor, rested and getting a little damp from the drizzle that decided to fall and cool us off, we decided that Dorothy was right. Sometimes, there’s just no place like home. And you don’t have to cross an ocean to have a new adventure.

Buon viaggio!

Linda Dini Jenkins

Linda Dini Jenkins is a card-carrying Italophile, travel planner, freelance writer, and amateur photographer. Travel is her passion, so writing about her travels just comes naturally. She hopes all her travelers find a way to express their joys, surprises, and fears as they travel and gives every traveler a nifty journal to help smooth the way. Learn more…