San Francisco is a city where people are never more abroad than when they are at home. — Benjamin F. Taylor

Our first day in San Francisco was pretty typical for us. Since I know how Tim likes to follow his nose, and since there were two things that I absolutely, positively wanted to see, I suggested that we do those on Day One. Then I didn’t really care how the rest of the week unfolded; it would all be an adventure.

So what were these “must-sees”? Well, I guess it’s all that traveling to Europe, but I had to make a pilgrimage to Grace Cathedral. It was only a few walkable blocks from the hotel where we were staying, and struck quite a pose against the city skyline, so I had to take a look. I also knew that there was an active AIDS Interfaith Chapel inside, so I wanted to go and see what that was all about. Stop Two? Had to be North Beach, the city’s Italian-Beatnik enclave that’s a natural for any self-respecting writer of Italian background to have on her list. So off we went . . .

Grace Cathedral

A house of prayer for all people, without exception

Window magic at the cathedral

Nestled between California and Sacramento Streets, off Taylor, sits Grace Cathedral, the country’s third largest Episcopal cathedral. Sitting on the site of railroad baron and banker Charles Crocker’s Nob Hill mansion (which was destroyed in the unpleasantness of 1906), the Cathedral is cleverly built of concrete and steel, despite its Gothic look, and was designed to stand up to the city’s seismic fluctuations. So far, so good . . .

The original Grace church, built in 1849, sat on the corner of California and Stockton Streets and was destroyed in the earthquake; Crocker gave his land for the construction of a new cathedral when his own house succumbed. Work on the cathedral, designed by Lewis Hobart, began in 1928 and was completed in 1964. Inspired by Notre Dame in Paris — with an interior Chapel of Grace that looks a lot like Sainte Chapelle — Grace Cathedral is an impressive structure, even by European standards.

The belfry’s 44 bronze bells — one of which tolls on the hour —and 25-foot Rose Window are astonishing. And the cathedral’s 7,500-pipe Aoelian Skinner organ is one of the largest in the country. The stained glass is staggering here, even the 20^th Century windows, which depict notables like John Glenn and Albert Einstein. In the entryway, San Franciscan sculptor Beniamino (Benny) Bufano’s larger-than-life statue of St. Francis of Assisi offers a smooth and pleasing welcome.

The Doors of Heaven, SF

The front doors are bronze and gold plated replicas of Lorenzo Ghiberti’s Doors of Paradise (also called Gates of Paradise), considered to be the first and greatest masterpiece of the Italian Renaissance. The Florentine sculptor’s originals were, of course, made for the Baptistery of the Duomo in Florence and tell the story of the Old and New Testaments. The doors of Grace Cathedral were actually struck from the very same molds used for the originals. Look closely and you’ll see the stories of Creation, the Flood, Moses receiving the Law, David and Goliath and more.

The midday sun reflected wildly off the doors as we stood outside talking with a very generous Rick Felton, Interim Director of Development for the Cathedral. He gave us an enormous amount of time, talking about the state of things in the city and at Grace, and gave us a real back-stage tour of the incredible building. Standing on the balcony, overlooking the sanctuary, is a breathtaking experience I’ll never forget. And off the side of the rear balcony — on the second level of the bell tower —was the entrance to the cathedral’s Columbarium, which was closed that day, but Rick granted us a tour, anyway.

The Columbarium offers an alternative to in-ground internment within the consecrated Chapel of Saint Francis as well as a relevant way to earn income for the cathedral. Here’s the idea: Historically, many churches have laid their dead to rest in churchyards or within their walls (think Westminster Abbey). The Columbarium — derived from the Latin word columba, meaning dove) — offers a place of perpetual rest and care for the cremated remains of the sons and daughters of Grace Cathedral. Ashes are stored in a sealed bronze urn that is placed permanently in the Columbarium and a bronze plaque on the door identifies the remains. Commital service and quarterly requiem services are offered, and who knew I’d get so excited about an indoor cemetery? I don’t know. It just seems like a good idea for both the living and the dead. Moving on . . .

The interior labyrinth

One of my favorite things about Grace Cathedral was the presence of not one, but two labyrinths — one outside and one inside. The labyrinth, an ancient pattern with no dead ends (unlike a maze), is walked today to “quiet the mind, find balance and encourage meditation, insight and creativity.” The outside one is available 24/7 for walking and contemplation. The indoor one is open during cathedral hours except during special events. I prayed my first labyrinth inside and am happy to report that I did not dizzy myself into a fall, which looked like a real possibility on a few turns. So much for achieving balance.

Keith Haring's screen, The Life of Christ

And then there was the AIDS Interfaith Chapel. Dedicated in 2000 as a memorial to the nearly 20,000 San Franciscans who have died of AIDS, this chapel is a place of “meditation, healing and remembrance for caregivers and those who are still fighting against the disease.”

The centerpiece of the Chapel is a bronze and gold triptych altarpiece by artist Keith Haring (called The Life of Christ) which was completed just weeks before his own death of AIDS in 1990. On either side of the triptych are symbols of the world’s religions, including Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Shinto, Hinduism, Taoism, Jainism, Buddhism, indigenous faiths and all other faiths. A huge panel from the NAMES project hangs across the small chapel. And although this is a very Catholic thing to do, and although I am not even an Episcopalian, I went over and lit a candle for the friends I have lost, the ones still fighting and the ones who are looking out for them. And then I had to walk out into the sunshine.

North Beach

From the Cathedral, we walked over to North Beach, heading for ethnicity and lunch. I wanted to take Tim up Columbus Avenue to all things Italian and then make my requisite trip to City Lights Bookstore and Vesuvio Café.

We marched through Chinatown with its windows full of food and things that I assume are food but wouldn’t want put on a plate in front of me, and marveled at the hustle and bustle on the streets. We might as well have been in Beijing: street signs, temple-edged buildings and gates — all Chinese. I must say we were getting very hungry and pretty temped to stop for lunch in Chinatown, but we soldiered on and made our way to the Italian section before long.

There are so many choices. Touristy (but still good) places like The Stinking Rose and Caffe Trieste — which allegedly served the first cup of espresso on the West Coast in the 1950s —still offer better than average food and beverage experiences. And as we walked up Columbus Avenue and crossed Broadway (the scene of many a naughty piece of business in the 1960s and 1970s), we started to get confused. I was leaning towards the Sicilian Trattoria Pinocchio, well-known in the guidebooks and no doubt very good. But then Tim found one of his gems. A little place called L’Osteria del Forno at 519 Columbus Avenue. We walked in.

Family-run Osteria del Forno is a storefront affair, with maybe ten tables in sight. Our server, Ormenia, came from a town near Torino in the Piemonte region in the north. She brought us a basket of arguably the best focaccia ever and then made some recommendations for our lunch. I kept it light: a very nice salad and a huge slice of funghi pizza, which was just right. Tim shared my salad and had a lamb dish that he said was to die for. A carafe of pinot grigio and we were happy people. We even had espresso to fortify us for the next stop.

The Spirit of City lLghts

Walking the block or two back to Broadway and Columbus, we climbed into the historic space that is City Lights Booksellers & Publishers. City Lights has a long and fabled past. Founded in 1953 by poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti, City Lights has been home to the beats, the protest poets, out of sorts academics, out of work writers, myriad creative types and creative wanna-bes and general vagabonds of all kinds who flock to the store to reside a while amongst its narrow aisles. But make no mistake: City Lights is not just an historical stop on the Beat Nostalgia trail. Not just a literary landmark. It is a vibrant and important independent bookstore, totally tuned into the 21^st Century and very much a home for a new generation of readers and writers. And if you’re lucky (I was, a few years ago), you can still see Ferlinghetti himself up in the Poetry Room or replenishing shelves. I was gob-smacked.

But the importance of City Lights goes far beyond being just another groovy bookstore. In 1955, Ferlinghetti launched the Pocket Poets Series, most notable for the publication of Allen Ginsberg’s masterpiece, Howl, which resulted in an obscenity charge. Other poets in the series include Jack Kerouc, Denise Levertov, William Carlos Willams and Ferlinghetti himself, among many others. Today City Lights Books has nearly 200 titles in print, and has moved beyond poetry to include cutting-edge fiction, memoirs, literary translations and books on important social and political issues.

Across Jack Kerouc Alley lies Vesuvio, the dark and historic watering hole that was home to the Beats and the Hippies and tries to continue its counterculture tradition, despite the TV in the bar and the too-fresh-face-looking bar staff. No matter. We enjoyed a chance to sit and rest before our walk back down to the hotel.

Cool, man

Vesuvio opened in 1948 and remains a monument to jazz, poetry, art and all things Beat. Today it attracts a diverse clientele, as reported on the saloon’s website, including “artists, chess players, cab drivers, seamen and business people, European visitors, off-duty exotic dancers and bon vivants from all walks of life.” So we added to that diversity, I guess. I had a boring Campari and soda and Tim had a beer and we sat amongst the decoupaged walls, weird stained glass windows and psychedelic décor wondering what the hell we were doing there.

All things Italian

Finally, we headed back to the hotel, but not before stopping at Molinari & Sons. Established in 1896, Molinari offers an incredible array of Italian salumi, cheese, bread, fresh salads, olives and so on. Certainly enough to make a dinner out of, which we did. Cans of olive oil were piled to the ceiling, as were cartons of wine from every region of Italy. We got a little bread (un po di pane), a little gorgonzola (no translation needed) and a little sopresatta, a dry-cured salami, and then Franco helped us out with a little wine. All we needed. We staggered back to the room after a very full, very rewarding first day and collapsed before 9:00. My feet were already killing me.

Now that’s what I call a vacation!

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…

A few months ago, this blogsite sponsored a travel writing contest for professional travel writers. Thanks to all who entered . . . we received some really nice pieces of writing about places all around the world. But the winner, hands down, was Alison Bell, who writes here of her trip to Kenya. Thanks, Alison! Your copy of Up at the Villa: Travels with my Husband is on its way!

Kenya

Is that a rock or a hippo? I’m sipping cold, crisp white wine on a beautiful veranda in hot sunshine overlooking a river, while trying to work out what the big grey lump is about 50 metres away from where I’m relaxing. It’s not moving so it must be a rock. I return to the same spot for my hearty breakfast the next morning and my big grey rock had gone. My first wild hippo sighting and I hadn’t even realised.

They’ll be plenty of other opportunities though, for this is Kenya, the mother of all safari destinations. Kenya’s big draw is its diversity and its value for money. There’s the dense landscape of Samburu, complete with all the unique varieties of animals, the beautiful beaches of Mombasa and the expanse of the Masai Mara, to name but a few attractions. We headed to the Mara but not before spending some time in Nairobi before our internal flight to our barefoot luxury camp.

Mama & baby baboon

First stop was the Nairobi National Park (home to an elephant orphanage and giraffe centre) and Animal Orphanage, about a 15-minute car journey from the city centre. We didn’t have time to do one of the safari walks on offer or car tours of the park (on which you can see most of the big game as well as up to 500 different varieties of bird) but we did wander around the orphanage which is more like a small zoo, where, as you’d expect, you get to see plenty of cute baby versions being cared for after their parents have either died or been killed by poachers. Among the rescued animals were one-month old cheetahs, five-month old lion cubs, young giraffe, leopard, hyenas and jackals.

On safari

The smooth flight to our camp took 45 minutes and our tiredness was eradicated

The Water Buffalo Looks On

straight away as we were greeted by our guide and taken straight out on our first evening safari. The guides there operate three safaris a day – one early morning, one late morning and one early evening until dusk – and each one offers slightly different opportunities to see the animals. Our first outing was a successful one; our guide had spotted some young cheetahs before collecting us so as well as the hundreds of zebra and wildebeest that roam the Mara, we were also lucky enough to see some big cats before the spectacular sun set.

The Mara Explorer camp is in the heart of the Masai Mara Game Reserve on the Talek River and, although home to a large selection of smaller animals (faffette monkeys and bush babies included), big animals are kept at bay by an electric fence. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be disturbed by their noises in the night as I discovered when I woke up after what could have been a hungry hippo roar, vibrating through our linen tent walls.

The camp has a restaurant, bar, gift shop and pool, and each tent is comfortable and roomy. In fact, the word ‘tent’ is slightly misleading as the only resemblance this accommodation has to camping is the fact that the walls are fabric. The interior, however, has everything a four-star hotel room would offer.

The Big Five

Leopard, one of the Big Five

Early morning, before it gets too hot, is the best time to catch sightings of the big game. Staff at the camp bring a hot drink to the tent to soften the early morning wake-up call and it’s in the Jeep for 6.30am to try and tick off as many of the Big Five (elephant, rhino, buffalo, lion and leopard) as possible. Other animals to spot include giraffes, cheetahs, topi, water buck, baboons and various birds including vultures, eagles and ostrich.

We were lucky enough to spot all of the Big Five bar the rather elusive rhino; not for lack of searching, they are just particularly difficult to spot in that area. But one amazing spectacle we did get to witness was a water crossing of hundreds of zebra and wildebeest. Grouped together at the side of the river, they must have been discussing tactics for about half an hour before one wildebeest made its move. Dramatically launching itself into the river, the rest followed as they scrambled to tackle the current and avoid the hungry waiting crocs. The majority made it, but the crocs were fed as part of the natural bargain.

Relaxing into the wild

For a slightly wilder experience, halfway through our week’s safari, we moved to Mara Explorer, Mara Intrepids’ sister camp nearby, both run by Heritage Hotels. This is a smaller camp with fewer tents but offers even more luxury without the aid of an electric fence. As a result, when it’s dark, you have to radio for an escort to take you to and from the restaurant. In both camps, the bars overlook the river so you can relax with a Tusker beer and try and spot the animals as they try and cool down in the water.

The Explorer camp offers little extras like a secluded outside bath on the room’s veranda and romantic dinners in the bush, but both camps have various activities on offer (at an extra cost) such as a safari walk, hot air balloon rides, sundown cocktails outside the camp, a visit to a local Masaai family, or you can choose to have your breakfast or lunch as a picnic while on safari as part of the package.

Each safari experience is different, and each day offers different spectacles from the

The Lioness

most heartwarming (like cheetah cubs happily playing in our vehicle’s wheels) to the more gruesome (a lioness killing a young wildebeest for its cubs) but safaris do offer a first-hand look at nature, which is something far beyond a documentary. And what’s more, you’ll be treated like the king of the jungle.

After over 12 years in various editorial roles, Alison is now a freelance journalist specialising in travel, charity and property writing. Previous experience has included editing magazines and copy subbing on business newspapers. Follow her travels at www.alisonbell.net.

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…

San Francisco is 49 square miles surrounded by reality. — Paul Kanter, Jefferson Airplane

My mother absolutely adored San Francisco. Like so many before her, she claimed the City as her own. She and I lived there for only three months back in 1952, but somehow the experience never left — her or me — and I was a mere three years old at the time.

My father, a hydraulic/pneumatic engineer at Grumman Aerospace in New York, was assigned to a Navy contract out in northern California at the time. He was there for several weeks alone and missed his family terribly, it seems. So much so that he and a bunch of other Grummanites— and a few sailors who were stationed there — soon took a weekend trip to some newfangled place in the desert called Las Vegas. Dad (who was normally tighter than a tick and would never voluntarily throw money away) gambled — and won — enough to buy two tickets for a transcontinental flight for me and Mom. So Mom packed us up, somehow got us to Idelwild Airport, and together we boarded the PanAm flight for the left coast and the City by the Bay.

Mom and me, 1952

Dad retrieved us at the airport and drove us to what would be our home away from home: a suite in the (now defunct) Alameda Hotel, across the Bay in Oakland.  I remember it as a huge, ornate pink stucco building with massive palm trees out in front; alas, I am not a reliable narrator yet at three years of age. But there are some things I absolutely remember.

I remember that one of our stewardesses (we called them that back then) stayed at the hotel from time to time (as did many other airline personnel, I imagine). And I remember her doing cartwheels on the front lawn of the Alameda with me.

I remember being babysat by (in retrospect) painfully young sailors when my parents wanted to get away in the evening. One in particular, a cute guy named Chuck, was famous for making me strawberry shortcakes with gobs of whipped cream (no pun intended). I believe he was my first crush.

I remember going to Children’s Fairyland and climbing in and out of the Old Woman’s Shoe and the Three Pigs houses and the Blue Whale that made my storybooks come to life.

I remember sleeping on a Murphy bed that pulled down from the kitchen wall into the living room, and that a leaky faucet in the kitchen kept me up half the night.

I remember almost falling out the window one afternoon when I saw my father coming up the front walk to the hotel entrance. I was so excited to see my daddy. ‘Bout scared us all half to death!

I remember going to the Cliff House on the Pacific Ocean for lunch. I called it the “Clip House” because I was missing some teeth at the time, but I loved to watch the seals on the rocks outside the window and feel the ocean breeze on my face when we walked around outside.

The Cliff House today

I didn’t know about Eloise at the Plaza yet, but looking back, I must have been a poor, but happy relation. When my folks weren’t giving me the attention I thought I so richly deserved, I remember that I would sneak out of the apartment and go down to the lobby bar. Planting myself on a stool, I would promptly be served a Shirley Temple (extra cherries, please) and the TV (still a fairly new gadget) dial would be clicked over until it found some kind of cartoon show or other suitable programming for a patron such as myself. Maybe Ding Dong School? Possibly Pinky Lee? My memory isn’t that good. I only know that when they finally realized I was missing, my parents always knew just where to find me. Imagine doing that now . . .

So why this walk down Memory Lane? Simply because I left a little piece of my you-know-what in San Francisco and Tim and I recently spent a week there. We stayed in the City, but did the requisite trips to Sonoma and Napa and then spent a night in Cromberg, up in the Sierra Nevadas. More on that adventure another time. Because I’m just getting warmed up. I’ll tell you all about what we did and what we saw. I’ll tell you about the pilgrimage to a few choice spots in the City and then up to Oroville, to learn about where Tim’s ancestors on his mother’s side settled in the mid 1800s — and why. But for now, I want to tell you about our new home away from home, the Hotel Carlton.

A few months ago, when we made the decision to go to San Francisco, I jumped on the internet and found a few remarkable packages. Getting in and out of Richmond, Virginia isn’t always the most cost-effective way to fly, but I found a trip that flew right out of Richmond (through Dallas on the front end and through Detroit on the back end, and there is no ulterior message in that statement). Anyway, the “economy” version of the trip put people up in the Hotel Carlton. I asked a friend who had lived there for years about the location and she said it was fine. Nob Hill. Centrally located. Near Van Ness, Geary, Union Square . . . not far from downtown. Go for it, she said. So we did.

Now, it turns out that the hotel is a little on that edge of Nob Hill that moves into the area known as the Tenderloin which used to not be so good. We had no problems. And when I saw the transvestite with the elegant orange damask sheath dress walking up Jones Street in her dirty blonde wig and single striped stocking, a la the Wicked Witch of the West, sounding a lot like Brenda Vaccaro, complaining to a friend, I thought it was just part of the entertainment. We even went back the next day to Jones Street for a memorable breakfast at Dottie’s True Blue Café, also on Jones Street, where you have to wait on line even at 7:00 in the morning. But that gives you a chance to study the Apologia taped to the door, which is a must-read. And the food is to die for.

But back to the Hotel Carlton. Part of the Joie de Vivre Hotel group — California’s largest boutique hotel collection — known for rehabbing small hotels in unique places, the Carlton has a joy all its own which it generously passes on to its patrons.  An extra benefit (which we learned the next day) is that the hotel is built on a strong metal cage and withstood the 7.1 earthquake in 1989 with only one broken window. I could sleep here.

We were warmly welcomed upon arriving (at 12:30 a.m., local time) and found ourselves to be part of a real community for the next week. Complimentary local wine tastings in the lobby every afternoon. Entertainment, ranging from a string quartet from the Golden Gate Symphony one night to the keyboard musings of one of the staff another night. Always choreographed and made jolly by Edgar, another staff member, who made it his mission to be sure that everyone was comfortable, had full glasses and were enjoying themselves. He introduced us to the small English tour groups that came through and was a huge promoter of the hotel’s restaurant, Saha.

Lights in Saha

Serving Arabic fusion cuisine, Saha puts out Yemeni-inspired masterpieces every night and is managed by the husband and wife team of Mohamed and Marmee Aboghanem. Saha (which is a toast to good health) never disappointed – not even for breakfast, where the place is served by the indomitable Kate Rabbit, who brought us the best coffee we’d ever had every morning, along with a unique perspective on life. And speaking of bests . . . Tim had the best salad he’d ever had in his life here: arugula and mint with grilled chicken livers and gorgonzola, sauteed white peaches and honeyed pecans, drizzled with a balsamic vinaigrette. Makes me want to go back just for that . . . I had a curried lentil soup and then curried butternut squash, asparagus and lentils with Israeli couscous. And don’t even ask about Tim’s duck breast with yams. This is no ordinary hotel restaurant, folks. This is a destination.

A presto, Gio and Edgar!

Sure, the rooms at Hotel Carlton are a little small, but the bed was amazing, the products were great and the location couldn’t be beat. Add to that the “family” feel, and it’s a no-brainer that we’ll be going back. And we’ll try other Joie de Vivre hotels as we move up and down the California coast. It was hard to leave — how many hotels can you say that about? So to Edgar and Giovanni and Theo and Kate and anyone else we missed . . . thank you for taking us in and making us part of your lives for a while. We’ll be back and we’ll bring friends with us to meet our new friends in San Francisco. Who needs reality, anyway?

Buon viaggio!

Tim and me and the Pacific Ocean/Cliff House

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…

All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence you know. — Ernest Hemingway

As you read this, Tim and I are off on an adventure. We’ve gone to San Francisco to find Ferlinghetti at City Lights Bookstore and to the surrounding area to track down a branch of Tim’s family tree.

Thanks to several long nights spent on ancestry.com, Tim has found out where his maternal grandmother’s family comes from. He has seen the actual building in San Francisco where Maxine grew up. He went farther back and discovered that the Brooks and Marshall clans have been in the San Francisco area since the gold rush. Up in Oroville, near Sacramento. And so we’re going. I’ll tell you more about the “why” in another piece. But now I want to give you an update on my entry from two weeks ago about Verona and a possible writers retreat.

All I can say is that it’s looking good. Probably late October. Our friends are working feverishly to open a small hotel right in Verona centro. If we get enough people, we’ll have to spill out into other recommended venues. Our writing sessions can, indeed, be held at the amazing Palazzo Castellani, if all the scheduling planets line up correctly for us. And we can have tours and maybe a cooking class and, of course, we’ll have Tim, pulling us in unorthodox but always rewarding directions.

By the time I get back, I should know more. Have a good week. I’ll be back here on the 30th. Meanwhile, go discover something completely new in your own backyard. And then write about it.

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…

Journeys are the midwives of thought. — Alain de Botton
I have a wall full of travel books. Mostly, they’re books about all the places I’ve been: France, Belgium, the U.K., Vermont, New York, the Southeastern United States, and various and sundry parts of Italy. Some of them tell me about places I’m about to visit: California, for instance (next week), and back up to Connecticut and Massachusetts later this summer. A few are about places that I long to go: Nepal, Prague, Greece, Copenhagen, Barcelona . . .

Travel books are very useful inventions. They provide us with a raft of information about everything from where to stay and eat to what kind of weather we can expect when we get there. My favorites (the DK Eyewitness Travel Guides from Dorling Kindersley Publishing)  even tell you about special regional dishes, what to bring home as souvenirs and how to respond in emergency situations. And that’s all well and good.

There are many travel guide “families” to choose from: Lonely Planet, Fodor’s, Frommer’s, Rick Steves — even good old AAA. And while one may focus more on the “back streets” approach to travel and another may be targeted to the budget traveler and still another may provide all you need to know about high-end luxury travel, they all set out to do the same job: to make it easier for you, the traveler, to navigate the unknown. We all feel better when we stay in a place with a certain number of stars or eat in a restaurant that has been given a good review by someone whose opinion we respect. And if Rick Steves says that the best way to see Europe is “through the back door,” then, by golly, some of us are going to find that door.

But I recently discovered another kind of travel book. It doesn’t tell you a thing about which hotel to frequent in Rome or which museum is a “must-see” in Amsterdam. It doesn’t care a fig about the local cuisine in Katmandu or that the Welsh language is making a comeback in some provinces in Patagonia. But it will teach you something much more important. You will learn about why people travel (or don’t) and about why the very act of travel is often so disappointing — and what to do about it.

The Art of Travel, by Alain de Botton, takes travelers where they’ve likely never contemplated going before: to the “how” and “why” of the act of leaving one place and going to another. The book has been called “dense” (I disagree) and is certainly more of a philosophical treatise on travel than a guide that will help you prepare your itinerary. But it will, I believe, help you prepare your interior itinerary: your rationale for and expectations about travel and how to prepare yourself for what you see, hear, smell and taste when you’re on the road.

Writing in the ALA publication, Booklist, Nicole Wallerk said of The Art of Travel:

“Rather than lavishing pages on the sumptuous taste of a sun-ripened olive

in Provence, philosopher de Botton examines what inspires us to escape the

humdrum and purchase tickets to Tahiti, tromp through the countryside, or

wander Rome. Left to one voice, such an inquiry might grow dull, but de

Botton uses the lives and works of artists and writers to explore the premise.

With each chapter, the author dissects our motivation to depart normality and

go (he quotes Baudelaire) “anywhere, anywhere!” De Botton’s anecdotal accounts

of his own travels illustrate the theme of each chapter, such as exoticism or

escapism, showing the unexpected (but all too common) disappointments

inherent in getting away. Then, using the interior and artistic lives of others,

de Botton probes the psychological underpinnings of why we go. The book

shines when discussing Flaubert’s lifelong urge for Egypt and painter Edward

Hopper’s affinity for the desolation of fuel stops and Automats. This literary

travelogue feeds hungry readers seeking self-insight.”

Swiss-born and now living in London, de Botton is the author of six other books, including the popular How Proust Can Change Your Life. When I first began reading The Art of Travel, I had to keep looking back to the publication date (2002), because it often reads like something out of the 19^th century (in a good and thoughtful way). But once I got used to the understated, philosophical style, I sat back and bought a ticket. The book itself is divided into five main sections: Departure, Motives, Landscape, Art and Return. The chapters within each section provide narratives about de Botton’s own travel, compared and contrasted with the experiences of the “guides” he invokes, among them Van Gogh, Humboldt, Hopper, Wordsworth, Flaubert and even the Old Testament’s most put-upon father and husband, Job.

It is a most unique writing venture. And anybody who, while traveling between London and Manchester, can notice a billboard “that advertises to motorists and to the sheep in an adjacent field a photograph of a fried egg, two sausages and a peninsula of baked beans” is all right in my book.

As with every book I read, I have underlined a passel of phrases and passages that I felt were full of either truth or wit or both. I started on page 29 in The Art of Travel with the peninsula passage above and moved on to other wonderful bon mots like “What we find exotic abroad may be what we hunger for in vain at home.” Thinking about my irrational curiosity about Italian doorknockers, for example, I was struck by this passage:

“. . .  we may value foreign objects not only because they are new

but because they seem to accord more faithfully with our identity

and commitments than anything our homeland can provide.”

Perhaps. But that initial de Botton quote sums it up nicely: the journey is the midwife of thought. And thought leads to exploration of new ideas and that can lead to words and drawings and the capture of the exotic and the intoxicating. Also the beauty of the everyday, the genuine seeing of the ordinary, the honing of our receptivity. He writes, “Once I began to consider everything as being of potential interest, objects released latent layers of value.”

So get the book and read it, by all means. But before you do, go and notice something today. Something ordinary, that you have seen every day of your life, perhaps, but never really noticed before. Feel the texture, note the sensual curves, put it to your nose and smell its heart. Travel is just  like that.

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…

Writing is the only thing that, when I do it, I don’t feel I should be doing something else. — Gloria Steinem

Have you seen the movie Letters to Juliet yet? To be sure, it’s a silly, romantic, improbable little chick flick and I never would have gone to see it if it weren’t for that magical word “Verona” in the title. (And to be honest, I’ll go see anything with Vanessa Redgrave in it. I figured that if she could stand it, so could I.) And I’m glad I went. The scenes of the Italian countryside were glorious, hearing the language again (even if I only understand every fourth word) was moving, and “being” in Verona (for however brief a time) was, well, magical. I love Verona. And herein lies my proposal.

Regular readers of Travel the Write Way know that I love to bring small groups of like-minded people to Italy to share the experience. History, architecture, food, people, countryside . . . and, of course, the “Tim” experience: going where no tour group has gone before (or at least never quite the way he takes us). And then there’s the writing aspect of it all. Capturing the sights, the smells, the tastes, the expectations met and unmet, the surprises, the fears, the joys . . . So far, I have only organized groups of “friends” — people I know fairly well and who sometimes know each other. But readers of this blog and people who hear me read and do workshops keep asking me if I will ever offer tours, and I’m thinking maybe it’s time.

So over the weekend I had an idea. What if I could find a place in or near this amazing literary city for a group of writers (and their significant others) so that we could combine a workshop experience with some touring? Where we could live in an Italian city for a week together and write and share our stories? Where we could go someplace that we would never forget and possibly even be changed by it? Where we could eat all that good food and drink in all that history and scenery and even do a little shopping while we’re at it? What would you think of that?

Why Verona?

Besides being the legendary “home” to the star-crossed lover, Juliet Capulet, of Romeo and Juliet fame, Verona is one of the most beautiful and most prosperous cities in all of Italy. Located in the Veneto of Northern Italy, along the Adige River, Verona was designated a UNESCO World Heritage site in 2000 because of its unique urban structure and architecture. A combination of Roman and medieval sites awaits visitors to the city, along with its breathtaking Piazza delle Erbe, many cathedrals, art museums, castles and much, much more. And its proximity for day trips is a gift. Lake Garda is nearby. The Soave wine area is 30 minutes away. Mantova (Mantua), Vicenza, and Padova (Padua) are less than an hour away. And our favorite little fantastical place, Borghetto Valeggio sul Mincio, is very nearby and a must-see. Another good reason is that we may have access to an actual palace in which to hold our classes. Talk about inspiration!

If there’s interest, we’ll find a place and figure out how to get us around once we’re there. All you’ll have to do is get there (and we may have a hand in local transportation once you’re in Bella Italia). So my questions to you at this point are:

(1) Would you be interested in such a trip?

(2) Please rank your seasonal preferences: spring, summer or fall

(3) Would you prefer to stay in a villa (which could mean sharing a bath with other writers and might be outside of the city centro) or a hotel?

(4) Are there any other locations you’ve got a hankering to go to? Please let me know. You know how one good idea leads to another!

No obligation, of course. We have some major details to work out and will be getting back to you after a few weeks with some specifics about costs, length of stay and program. But I can speak from experience that Italy is an inspirational place to be. I always come home with more ideas than I can possibly manage, and the experience lasts a lifetime. So think about it and get back to me BY SENDING A COMMENT TO THIS POST. Let me know if this sounds like something you would like to do. I’d love to have you come along to experience la dolce vita for a week — or two!

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…

That’s what I like about traveling — you can sit down, maybe talk to someone interesting, see something beautiful, read a good book, and that’s enough to qualify as a good day. You do that at home and everyone thinks you’re a bum. — Richard Linklater and Kim Krizan

I want to take you to a place. A place that is almost no place. At least that’s what most tourists would say. So when I recently found out that this favorite place of mine is considered a “C” location by the travel industry (that is, one that nobody ever asks to go to), I smiled. I (almost) hope that it stays that way, because I don’t want it to change.

The place is Sermide, an appealing little Italian village of about 6,000 people tucked away along the Po River in the province of Mantova (Mantua). And while it is technically in the region of Lombardia, it is really located where Lombardia meets up with Emilia-Romagna and the Veneto. And therein lies its enormous charm. Not that its central architectural delight — the Villa Castellani — is too shabby, either.

We first rented Villa Castellani in 2003. Seven of us, taking over four bedrooms and being taken in by its considerable charms. We went again last year, eight of us, a different group. It’s like introducing new friends to family. Villa Castellani is a two-acre piece of paradise right in the village, with walking paths amongst old trees, spotted with stone benches . . . and now, in the intervening years, the owner has put in a welcome pool and a small cabana off to the side, where it is thankfully not the focal point of the grounds. The caretakers live next door; the couple has changed since the first time we went, but they are still wonderful, caring people. First, Donata and Bruno. Now, Liliana and Valter. No one speaks a word of English. That is okay.

The morning capuccino

The mercato comes once a week and we can buy good cheese and salami and fresh vegetables, along with hats and scarves and tablecloths and our favorite Italian toothpaste. There are two food markets in town, so we are never at a loss for milk and eggs and bread and such. We cook frequently at home, and eat either al fresco during the day or in the dining room in the evening. The kitchen is perfectly adequate and everything tastes better there, especially the local white truffles and the melons. Sermide hosts a National Melon Festival every year during the first week in June to celebrate its bounty.

Che bello pasticcini!

Stroll into town (a few short blocks away and you’re there) and find shoe stores, electronics stores, places to buy clothing and appliances and jewelry . . . almost everything you need is here. There is a caffé and there is Dalla Fiore, the award-winning pasticceria, where you can pack on calories and who cares? Everything is molto bene. There is a butcher and a shoe maker. A sign in the shoemaker’s window says, Cinture fatte a mano, and sure enough, Tim goes in and has a black leather belt hand made for him for $20 while he waits. Not bad.

Tim's belt being made

There are several restaurants, and we frequent the one down the street, Trattoria Cavallucci, three times in one week. Again, no English. When I do not know what something on the menu is, the frustrated but amused owner thinks, and finally says, “Bambi!” Now I know what cervo means . . . We laugh a lot here.

The chiesa in the piazza

Of course, there is a church in the main piazza. Lovely and still in use, it remains damaged from the bombings of World War II. Because of Sermide’s strategic location along the Po, it was occupied by the Germans beginning in September 1943. Nearly 3,000 bombs fell on the town between June 1944 and April 1945, when the Germans were finally driven out by the American forces. This little town lost 152 of its citizens and many of its buildings suffered serious casualties. The memorial to those who died is especially moving.

The villa is beautiful and comfortable and we will go back again. But its proximity is what blows me away.

Tim at Villa Castellani

Draw a circle around Sermide with a 90-minute radius, and you’ll be able to see Padova (Padua), Verona, Vicenza, Parma, Modena, Mantova, Montagnana, Ferrara, Bologna, Ravenna . . . All the great food cities. All the Shakespearean cities. The great university cities. You’re near the lakes. You can go to Maranello and see the Ferraris. Or you can stay at home in an authentic Italian village, ride one of the bikes along the ridge by the Po and visit a delightful neighboring town like Ostigilia, Revere or Castelmassa.

Last Day: Judy, Linda, Tim, Liliana, Valter & Darko

This is what travel is. To see something that’s beyond the pages of the guidebook. To meet the pharmacist, the shoemaker, the altar guild ladies in the church and to live amongst them for a while. To say good morning to them early and then see the same faces again in the evening in the piazza or at the next table in the trattoria.  Of course, Rome and Florence and Venice are must-sees (Venice is only two hours away, in fact), but the spirit is different in a small place. You might find yourself here. Go, and have a look.

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…

“Come quickly,  brothers . . . I am tasting stars.” — Dom Perignon

Remember my piece a few weeks ago about our trip to Barboursville’s fabulous restaurant, Palladio? Well, I wasn’t exactly truthful. I told a little white lie. Just a tiny one. You see, while we did set out from Midlothian to go directly to Barboursville, we made a detour. A typical Tim detour.

As I mentioned in that piece, Virginia is becoming somewhat famous for its wines. Although Thomas Jefferson tried to launch a wine industry more than 200 years ago, his efforts failed for a variety of reasons. In fact, his Monticello vineyards never produced a single bottle of wine. And after years of trial and effort at Mount Vernon, his friend George Washington had nothing to show for it, either.

The al fresco tasting room

But here we were, driving along the spectacular rolling countryside that is Albemarle County, heading up to Palladio for Tim’s sister’s birthday, when we saw the sign for the Kluge Estate Vineyard & Winery. Tim said he wanted to go. I told him not to bother, because I had read somewhere when we first discovered the Virginia Wine Trail that this particular winery was only open by appointment. Tim made a hard right and started driving up the long and winding road that leads to the Kluge Estate, anyway. I was wrong. It was not only open — it provided a diverting and very tasteful aperitif for the afternoon’s adventures. Sometimes I love being wrong.

The Kluge Estate Winery and Vineyard was established in 1999 by philanthropist Patricia Kluge, who was once married to and then very publicly divorced from media mogul John Kluge, of Metromedia fame. The breathtaking 45-room Albemarle House estate was one of the spoils of the divorce; John still maintains another little patch of land not too far away. (N.B. In June, Sotheby’s is holding an auction of the contents of Ms. Kluge’s estate and, if you’ve got a few mil to spare, the estate itself is now on the market for the greatly reduced price of $48 million.)

Tucked onto the edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Charlottesville, Virginia, the 900-acre Kluge Estate Winery & Vineyards aspires to be one of the East Coast’s most prestigious wineries. I think it’s well on its way. Under the direction of Ms. Kluge, the Estate’s winemakers (according to the Kluge website) combine “meticulous practices and talent with a genuine love of the land and support for the Virginia wine community, Kluge Estate is capitalizing on the region’s potential to create world-class wines. . . Kluge Estate’s accomplished team and terroir reinforces the promise of good things to come.”

Ah yes . . . as we pulled up to the finely crafted Farm Shop (the estate’s tasting room) we

The "Farm Shop"

knew we were in for some good things. I wanted to move in. Designed by renowned architect David Easton, the Arts and Crafts-inspired Farm Shop hosts tastings of both Kluge and Albemarle (also by Kluge Estate) wines, indulges customers in exquisite cheese pairings and, of course, offers wines and a raft of other wine-related merchandise for sale. You can sit on the porch or in the elegant garden room or out in the gardens themselves and feel transported.

Fifi & the wine flights

We opted for a flight of both the Kluge and the Albemarle wines, and procured one plate of artisanal cheese and two small baskets of crusty bread for the four of us. We settled into the gardens (it was a glorious April day in the mountains) and began to read the instructions: this cheese with this cru. This cheese with that blush . . . This cheese with the pinot grigio . . . This one with the full-bodied reds.

After a while we really didn’t care which cheese

The beautiful cheese

we were eating with which wine. It was all so good and fun and a great way to spend 90 minutes or so under the sheltering skies of the Blue Ridge region. And then the cars started coming up the drive.

The Alfas are coming!

Not just any cars. No, these were beauties belonging to the Alfa Romeo Club of Virginia, here for a picnic outing and wine tasting. One by one, they rounded the corner up to the Farm House and were directed to appropriate parking areas. In amongst the Alfas were a few Fiats and even one of my favorites, a silver Maserati 3500 GTi. Talk about being transported. And what a fabulous way to start off my sister-in-law’s birthday celebration!

So there we are. Unabashed wine lovers, stopping at one winery before having a wine-infused luncheon at another winery over the ridge. Tim’s turn was right, as is usually the case. Drinking stars —  what a way to go!

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…

A garden is always a series of losses set against a few triumphs, like life itself. — May Sarton

Your first job is to prepare the soil. The best tool for this is your neighbor’s garden tiller. If your neighbor does not own a garden tiller, suggest that he buy one. — Dave Barry

Early Rhodie

Tim is the product of a full-blooded English father and a half-English mother, so it’s no surprise that he loves to garden. In the matter of gardening, I clearly did not get my Italian family’s genes (except when it comes to tomatoes) because I can kill most plants just by looking at them, and my wimpy, weak back is not made for bending over for hours on end. Oh, sure, I can cultivate a mean african violet or two, but that’s about it. I’d rather buy sunflowers from the grocery store and admire them on the kitchen table while Tim is sweating up a storm outside.

It’s spring here in Virginia as I write this and we’ve already had a few different weather patterns thrust upon us in the last few weeks – temperatures ranging from 36º to 95º with both thunderous rainstorms and near-drought conditions. The locals say it’s pretty typical, but we still can’t get used to it. In New England, where we came from, spring was a very predictable 24-hour affair that happened some time in early June and then immediately gave way to summer. Today is, as a friend of mine used to say, “a perfect San Francisco day,” but it will be up near 90º within 48 hours.

A little contemplative spot

So it is spring and Tim has been planting for weeks. His tomato seeds are coming up nicely and he’s augmented them with some mature plants from the store. He’s put in peppers and spinach and a variety of lettuces. He announced yesterday that his cantaloupes look healthy and that if we watch them very carefully we might be able to get one or two away from the squirrels this year.

The lovely Climatis

I love that he does this. Vegetables and a full herb garden are wondrous things to have for the four or five months that we can enjoy them down here. But Tim’s flowers are what really get to me. They come early and last only a short time. But they make me smile. Here are a few pictures of this year’s selection — and a few garden-related poems.

Travel into our picture garden and then into a few poets’ words: my poem about tulips and then, for a grin, Dorothy Parker’s thorny piece about one perfect rose . . .

Peonies, just before the big bloom

Tulips

In four years I have not taken the tulip bulbs

out of the ground and done what people say I should:

bury them in the basement, hide them in the dark —

as if it isn’t dark enough under ground?

It is part of my continuing carelessness with plants.

Nevertheless, they grow, a little wild, perhaps, and unpredictable.

The tulips, once pure whites and stately reds, are now all pink,

a heathered pale hue that seems honest, a pink that joins

the best of both in their strong petals, not quite filled in

completely, like the haphazard coloring of an inattentive child.

Still, they return each year when late April chills give way

to the warming skies of May. And for a while they stand

above everything else in that little plot of promise,

announcing another safe passage, in spite of my neglect —

proclaiming the covenant of cycles, fueled by water, sun,

and the spirit-rich earth which holds the memory of tulips

for another year.

© 2010 Linda Dini Jenkins

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…

You may have the universe if I may have Italy — Giuseppe Verdi

I went to Italy last weekend and never crossed an ocean. I stayed right here in Virginia, and had an experience that I can only call magical.

My sister-in-law was out from Utah to celebrate her birthday with her mother and brother (my husband, Tim). We hardly ever get to see FiFi (Tim’s childhood pronunciation of her real name, Christine) and wanted to do something special for her because it had been decades since she had been “home” for her birthday.

Zonin's grapes. Notice the rose bush at the end of each row? They're the "canary in the coal mine" for wine grapes.

So we all piled in the car and drove about 90 miles west of Richmond to horse country. Rolling hills, paddocks, great farms and homes on magnificent acreage — “Piedmont Virginia” happens pretty quickly once you head in the general direction of Charlottesville. There’s a lot of money out there as well as a lot of taste. And, apparently, soil and climate conditions that are perfect for growing grapes. There are some 21 wineries in the vicinity of Charlottesville alone (along the Monticello Wine Trail), and about 155 throughout the state of Virginia. And that was all we needed to know. We were heading back to Barboursville Vineyards and its incredible Palladio Restaurant.

Barboursville — named for James Barbour (former Virginia Governor ((1812-1814)) and friend to Jefferson and Madison) — was once a magnificent and historic Virginia estate located between Monticello and Montpelier. The ruins of the old plantation home (the only building in Orange County known to have been designed by Jefferson) are still visible on the grounds, along with The 1804 Inn and the 18^th Century Vineyard Cottages, which are available for relaxing weekends in the country. Now home to Virginia’s most honored winery, Barboursville Vineyards was founded in 1976 by the Zonin family, prominent in Italian viniculture since 1821.

Tim and I eagerly attended our first “local” wine tasting not long after we moved to Virginia. To our disappointment, many of the wines were what I would consider “novelty” wines — made with strange ingredients like strawberries and jalapeños. Or they were simply too sweet for our palates. But the first time we tried the Barboursville Pinot Grigio, we were hooked. So a few years later we were delighted when the Italian club organized a day trip to visit both Montpelier — Madison’s home — and Barboursville Vineyards.

Twenty years ago the Zonin family sent a “talented and somewhat audacious graduate of Italy’s leading wine academy” to Barboursville to see what he could do. Within five years, that novice winemaker, Luca Paschina, presented the Zonin family with an early version of Octagon, which would soon become the most honored red wine in the Eastern United States and which has been enjoyed by both Queen Elizabeth II and President Barack Obama. In his 20 years at Barboursville, Luca has overseen the production of a variety of fabulous wines including Cabernet Franc, Viognier, Sauvignon Blanc, Rosé, Barbera, Nebbiolo, Sangiovese and its famed dessert wine, Philéo.

The tasting room & surroundings

And just as the grapes are overseen by an authentic Italian hand, the artful pairings of food and wine at Palladio Restaurant are the work of Sommelier Professionista Alessandro Medici (formerly of Trattoria Sant’ Ambroeus in Bergamo, Italy) and Chef Melissa Close Hart, who has three times been Guest Chef at the James Beard Foundation and has been twice nominated as one of the Foundation’s 25 leading chefs in the mid-Atlantic region.

I confess that I’ve always wanted to be catered to by a Medici (I was hoping for a poetic appointment in a palace) and while that didn’t happen, we were very well cared for by Alessandro. Our meal began with a glass of his crisp Brut as we perused the menu. Fifi was impressed. The choices are amazingly fresh and mostly local. It’s what Chef Melissa does with them that is beautifully unique while at the same time somehow authentically Italian.

The entryway

When you go to Palladio, you have choices: two, three or four courses . . . with or without wine. It gets more difficult to stick to two or three courses the more you read the menu, but one does what one has to do. Tim can never stop at anything less than four. Mom is always good for two and a bite of someone’s dessert. Fi and I chose the sensible option, I believe: three courses. With wine, all around. Bring it on. It’s a European setting with European temporal sensibilities, so you can count on being seated for at least two hours. All that food will soak up most of the alcohol before you get behind the wheel again . . . we hope.

Our afternoon began with a beautiful drive through the vineyards and up to the restaurant. It continued with an array of exquisite culinary offerings. Our appetizers were a Morel and Parmigiano-Reggiano Flan, Piedmontese Beef Carpaccio, Smoked Rag Mountain Trout and a Braised Rabbit Tart with Sweet Pea Puree and Frisée Salad. Then we moved on . . . Monkfish, Crispy Gnocchi, Roasted Cornish Game Hen and Braised Pork Cheeks. For dessert, Fi ordered the Panna Cotta because I told her it was my favorite Italian dessert of all time, and then I ordered the Brandied Black Cherry Gelato. I think Mom and Tim split the Dark Chocolate and Lemon Marmalade Cake, but by then I was too far gone to notice. Gone in the happy sense. Each European-sized course served with a complimentary wine. Crusty breads and fine service throughout. And how special did they make Fi’s birthday dessert?!?

The best Panna Cotta ever!

We walked out into the sunlight reluctantly, not wanting to leave, but somewhat eager for a glorious drive home through the countryside. Fi was ecstatic. These little trips make the time between the big trips bearable. We are very lucky to be able to do this and we know it. If we can’t have Italy every year, we’ll have Palladio in between. And for your own special occasion, you can have it, too. Make a reservation, even for lunch. And get on the mailing list, because there’s lots coming up this year and if you’re either a wine nut or a foodie, you won’t want to miss one of these experiences. Barboursville. It’s just one of the reasons we’re happy to have found Virginia.

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…