Tour de France
Lago D’Orta
The cities, the noise, the traffic is far behind. The air here is strangely soft and pure. The serenity is palpable. The beauty of the place envelops you, outside and in. The near by mountains surrounding you are high and covered with greenery and sport a villa here and there. They are sometimes shrouded in mist, sometimes green and sometimes a smoky blue like in a Renaissance painting. They nestle and frame the picture perfect lake like friendly protective shoulders. Nothing moves, except your spirit, which soars. You’ve entered another dimension where time slows and life gentles.
The little island in the middle of the lake, with its medieval castle, Church and monastery looks like a picture in a book of fairy tales. The legend is that Saint Julius propelled himself across the water on his cape around 400 CE, and with the strength of his faith alone, drove the resident dragon forever from the Island. Hence its name: Isolo San Guilio.
Down in the little town of Orta San Guilio, the town square right on the edge of the lake where the lake boatmen hang out during the day, comes alive at night. People stroll. Others dine al fresco at the restaurants surrounding. Or enjoy a gelato and conversation. The town band gives a concert. They play a tango. We dance the tango in the square. Little kids try to imitate us.
Later, we discover the Taverna Antiqua Agnello and have a meal of home made pasta and fresh perch from the lake that is so pure and so simple and so good that we return the following night to have exactly the same meal again.
In the heat of the day, the light plays on the water of the lake, shimmering, glowing and sparkling as we swim and picnic and take the sun. Children splash and play. Wooden hulled boats float serenely by. We try to capture it in pictures, knowing that we can’t, really.
The Villa Crespi was the fantastic vacation home of a fabulously successful cotton merchant whose trips to Baghdad and other parts of the middle East so inspired him with Byzantine fancy that he built a whole villa devoted to the theme. The house sits high on a hill overlooking the lake and surrounded by the green mountains, tolling church bells, singing birds and the occasional barking dog. We have the Crespi’s suite.
One night, a concert is given at the Villa under the huge wedding tent set up for the summer in the rear garden, by two singers from La Scala, a tenor and a soprano. They sing Neapolitan Love Songs, which waft up to our third floor room and in through the seven huge open Byzantine windows. As we lay in the curtained four-poster listening, it’s like paradise.
Across the road from us is the Sacra Monte, a spiritual retreat built centuries ago to honor St. Francis. There are 20 chapels on this hilltop overlooking Orta San Guilio, each with an altar and tableaux of startlingly real, life size painted figures, detailing the life of St. Francis. The tableaux were meant to speak to the illiterate. No text is necessary. Set amid the pines, flowers and tropical blooms, it is as serene and peaceful as any place on earth. And the views of Isolo San Guilio are heavenly and beautiful.
Golf at the Villa D’Este was like a relaxed, gorgeous dream. It was pure fun. More than should be allowed. Or so it seemed. It was followed by beer and a melon and proscuitto lunch on the terrace overlooking Lake Como and Lake Montorfano. Exquisite.
Golf at Iles Des Boromee, overlooking Lake Maggiore, was equally as satisfying. Watching the conclusion of the British Open in the Clubhouse with the members was priceless. Golfers are the same everywhere. So are people.
Venezia
We drive across Northern Italy on our way to Venice, stopping in Verona for lunch. The drive reminds me of the fertile valleys of California: rich agriculture, two lane roads, red tiled roofs and little towns on hilltops. I wish I could spend an afternoon in each one.
The water taxi, a fairly sleek wooden speed boat, makes its way across the bay from Marco Polo Airport heading for the islands of Venezia: the wind and spraying surf wonderfully refreshing after the drive. The fabled city looms closer and closer. Then we duck into a small canal just big enough for a one-way passage. It’s dank. The sun shines in for an hour a day, the rest of the time it’s in shadow. Sometimes we have to wait while a delivery barge slowly clears a turn, or a gondola passes, or another taxi glides by. After cranking our way down a number of such canals we finally emerge into the main Lagoon. It’s the Venice you’ve seen a hundred times in paintings and movies and pictures. Huge. Magnificent. Colorful. Vibrant. Unbelievable. And there we are right in front of St. Mark’s square. There are thousands of tourists. Thousands. It’s staggering, the number of tourists. Our hotel is right on the Lagoon, next to the Doge’s Palace and the Bridge of Sighs. We disembark.
The obligatory walk through St. Mark’s leaves me unimpressed. What was I thinking, I wonder, as I scan the throngs. There are people everywhere, like some multiplying alien organism. Soon they’ll have me by the throat and I won’t be able to breathe. “Arrgh... Ahhh,” I feel the life choking out of me. I long for the mountains and the peace and serenity of Lake Orta.
That night we walk a mile and a half away from St. Mark’s, far off the beaten path, and find the Hosteria Da Franz for dinner. Franco, the owner, adorned with traditional long white apron over his black service uniform proudly greets and serves us, while even prouder Franco, the son, talks to us. There is no menu. Franco, the younger, tells us what’s fresh and what he’d like to prepare. We make our choices and toast to our good luck. The seafood is sublime. We sit outdoors next to the red and white candy stripped canal poles that designate the gondola berth for the Da Franz. The parish Church is across the canal. A gondolier comes home from work and ties up his boat. He shouts to his inamorata who is leaning out the balcony window: a happy homecoming. Franco serves us wine on the house. Venice has been redeemed.
Early the next morning we are on the water again. The Vaporetto, the public boat transport, takes us to Lido. A cab ride later we unload the golf clubs at Circolo Golf Venezia. The club is wonderful: the staff friendly and helpful. The sun is shining. The course is incredibly green and beautiful. I begin to notice the variety of trees and bushes and plants. The exotic flora is breath taking, and along with the canals and wooden bridges and sea views, it provides one of the most enchanting of all golf experiences. The first and tenth tees are on top of the roof of the old fort built to defend the City 800 years ago. We linger on the patio after the round, savoring every moment.
Rialto is a word formed from the Italian Ri for ‘river’ and alto for ‘high.’ It was the site of the first bridge over the Grand Canal because it was the highest part of the riverbank. The Rialto Bridge is still one of the focal points of the city. We happily cross it on our way to the Rialto Market, the traditional site of the morning produce and fish merchants, where we meet Francesca and Allesandra, our cooking teachers for this very special day. We talk to the produce man and buy berries and lemons, lettuce and eggplant, thyme, parsley and zucchini flowers for deep-frying. Then on to the fishmongers for lessons in cuttlefish, squid, octopus, prawns, sea snakes and eels.
Francesca’s house is right in the center of San Paolo, one of the six central districts of Venice. And, she has a red clay tennis court in her back yard! That’s unbelievable. Her house and kitchen are beautifully modern and spacious. And she is as gracious a teacher and hostess as one could imagine. Along with her cousin, Allesandra, they give cooking lessons once or twice a week. While we’re in the kitchen preparing our risotto, a storm moves in. Hail comes down. The canal right outside the kitchen window is popping with splashes. The hail crashes into the windows.
Jim and Joey make crepes. For stuffing with cheese and spinach. The risotto recipe is called Rise Bise (REE-ZEE BEE-ZEE) for rice with peas. The rice is a particular kind of short rice locally grown in the Veneto that makes incredibly creamy risotto. The battered and deep fried zucchini flowers along with the thyme and parsley are delicious. We snack on them, with an excellent wine, of course, as we finish preparing the meal.
Allesandra and Francesca serve us the meal in the dining room. Francesca turns on the music and adjusts it to our liking. Allesandra serves the wine. Francesca the risotto. Then they leave us to enjoy it all. The risotto is the best ever. The crespelles, the stuffed crepes, are excellent. And the berries... to die for. Drunk with happiness and pleasure, we slowly make our way back to the Hotel.
We take a ride down the Grand Canal at sunset.
Our room overlooks the Lagoon and the great walkway by the water called the Schiavoni. Joey settles on the balcony and watches the crowds. Soon she’s laughing at the interaction between the tourists and one particular street performer who impersonates a statue. He’s all dressed in white, with white makeup on his face and he poses stock-still. Until someone stops to notice or stare. Then he gestures, ‘come take a picture with me.’ The startled reactions are funny and wonderful. Parents, kids, teenagers all react with generosity and good cheer. Except for one father, who had to be chided by his wife to leave the statue a few coins after taking his kid’s happy picture.
Sitting at the bar, outside the Hotel, I drink a Guinness until the Maitre D’ whose name is Marino offers the suggestion of an Italian beer. I consent and shortly thereafter am served a “Baffo D’oro.” A golden mustache. The picture of the man on the label looks something like my father. My name, Baffico, means ‘man with the mustache’ so I have a few more Baffos. It’s a wonderful beer. And an even better discovery.
Lido beach at the famous Hotel des Bains on a wet and misty day: rows and rows of cabanas and parasols and beach chairs, all empty. The sand is dark and fine grained and full of little pockmarks from the rain. In spite of the cool temperature, the little waves of the Adriatic beckon. The skies are full of gray clouds. The drought that has griped the Country may be about to break.
For the first time in years we visit a museum, the Venetian Naval Museum. And see a two-man torpedo from WWII. The kind two very brave men would ride and steer right up to the targeted ship, then hop off before collision and explosion. Gulp. You’ve got to be kidding! Fifteen ships were sunk this way.
We’re on the Rialto Bridge again. This time after lunch at a local tavern and two bottles of local wine. Joey is determined to take the definitive picture of the Grand Canal from this vantage point. Her best efforts produce only marginal results. However, the highlight of the afternoon is her taking family portraits for any number of tourist groups. Her gesturing, ‘want me to take a picture of all of you?’ works in all languages. She can’t get enough of the happy resultant faces.
Harry’s Bar: the first time we went, they kicked me out because I had on Bermuda Shorts. This time I’m better prepared with black jeans. We order a couple of Bellinis, the famous Harry’s Bar drink. It’s sweet. A real lady’s drink. “What the hell,” I think, “Hemmingway didn’t drink this stuff, did he?” I look around. It’s a dump. You know, one of those places that is trailer park chic? The walls are a dingy yellow. The pictures stupid. The wooden tables of various sizes and makes. The lighting blunt. It looks like a beer bar in Dunlap, Iowa. But the three waiters are starched and perfect and at their imitation servile British best. And the liquor costs a small fortune. It’s worth a laugh or two, and it adds a wonderful flavor to our already wonderful day.
Outside, Joey gets another tourist to take our picture by the window with “Harry’s Bar” plainly visible. It’s the best picture of us to date.
Back at the Hotel that night, she flirts and banters with the Maitre D’ Marino. He smiles in appreciation and says, “You are a very funny woman. Very funny. Do you have any sisters?” To which she replies without hesitation, “Three. And they’re all arriving tomorrow.” Marino is stopped for a moment by the thought, then charmed. As are we all.
As we speed across the bay and back to Marco Polo airport in the bright morning sunshine, Venice tugs at me. I don’t want to leave. It has captured my heart.
Paris
We look out our Hotel window, and instead of seeing the Lagoon, the boats and San Giorgio Island, we see the ateliers and garrets and rooftops of Paris. St. Germain des Pres on the Left Bank is the neighborhood and it’s fantastic: busy, young, happening, sophisticated, fun and so Parisian. After the War, it became synonymous with the intellectual life of France. Les Deux Magots is here. And the Cafe de Flore. So is the oldest Church in the City, St. Germain. So are a few of our favorite restaurants. The Ile de la Cite is two blocks to the river; the Musee d’Orsay a couple of blocks the other way. We walk it and love it.
We have a split-level with the bedroom upstairs. La Boheme, left by the hotel in the bedside CD player, wafts through the room as we unpack.
Saturday morning, we are up early and present ourselves at Le Cordon Bleu for our cooking class with Master Chef Patrick Terrien. It’s all in French, with English translation. We sit in the classroom and take notes as he makes four different terrines: pressed langoustine and salmon; Cod and smoked salmon with dill; Aspic coated chicken with country bacon and Chablis (this one also has ½ block of foie gras mousse!); and Country terrine with chicken livers. Lunch on the terrines, and it was a light lunch because these things are so rich you can only take a taste of them, is followed by our work in the kitchen. Under the direction and supervision of Chef, we make the same.
Chef signs the Certificat de Participation in the Atelier de l’Ecole Le Cordon Bleu, 26 Juillet 2003, that certifies that Mrs. Baffico was a participe a l’atelier de Terrines conduit par le Chef de de l’Ecole Le Cordon Bleu et lui confere ce Certificat de Participation. We pose proudly for pictures. And take our prize terrines back to the hotel and cram them into the mini bar fridge.
From the sublime to the ... ridiculous? Well not quite, but dinner that night at Brasserie Lipp provided the perfect antidote to too much French food: too much German food. What seemed like a half a pound of boiled pork, complete with sausages of various sizes, shapes and makes. Mustard, sour kraut and beer completed the meal in the noisy, crowded and happy Brasserie.
St. Germain is a wondrous old Church. It has a very ecumenical feel to it. We stroll the interior, stopping to examine a few side altars. I am uncomfortable in Churches, usually feeling the chafing of my religious education, but this one is strangely calming. There is a statue of St. Anthony, or St. Antoine to be more exact, holding a small child. It casts a spell on us. We light two candles.
We first came to Paris for our 30th Wedding Anniversary. We had a very special knockout dinner that year at Bistro d’Etoile Lauriston, a Guy Savoy restaurant. This year we’re celebrating number 36. So, we dress for dinner and make our way to La Butte Chaillot, another Guy Savoy restaurant, for our “official” anniversary celebration. It’s the most fantastic dinner of our trip. And one of the best of all time.
At the Musee d’Orsay on a rainy Sunday morning, we see a couple of spectacular photographic exhibits, then start our trek to the Champs Elysees to watch The Race. And a trek it was, since they had most of the streets blocked off for the conclusion of the Tour de France. We walk across the Seine to the Place de la Concord. But it’s circled with barriers. We’re only a few blocks from where we want to be but can’t get there. So, we have to go two miles back up the river to Pont Neuf, then to the Metro so we can pass under the Quai du Louvre, then back up the Rue de Rivoli towards the Champs again until we hit the section that required tickets for entrance. We are temporarily stymied, and here is where Joey began to question my planning. “Fear not,” I say. We make a detour North to Rue Saint Honore, then West again towards the Champs. Finally, two hours later we arrive at the middle of the Champs Elysees, right where we wanted to be! Another hour of waiting for the race to come by allows us time to work our way forward and toward the front of the crowd. Then faster than one could possibly imagine, the peloton flies by. Whoosh, like a swarm of tropical fish in a tank. And they’re gone. Only to reappear on the other side of the Champs a few minutes later going the other way. Up and down the Champs Elysees they go: ten times. After a few passes we are oriented to the swirl and the speed. We see Armstrong. And the Postal team. They sheppard him to and fro. It’s thrilling. Once in a lifetime. Worth every step.
The sun shines in the Tuileries Garden. Parisians take their ease. The photographic possibilities are endless. Joey explores as many as possible.
In reading about the race in Herald Tribune, I come across an article about Harlan Waksal being forced to step down from his Company, Imclone, because of the scandal his brother created. Waksal is one of Joey’s clients. How odd that we should read about it in Europe. Then we’re in the tres elegant Bon Marche looking for something or other when we walk through the cosmetics department and see an entire room completely devoted to Bobbie Brown. Another of Joey’s clients. I’m taken aback. And impressed.
And now for the truly ridiculous... We picnic in the hotel room on our terrines: pressed langoustine and wine; wine and cod and smoked salmon; chicken livers and wine; wine and foie gras mousse; wine and more wine; more Country terrine with chicken livers; more foie gras mousse; more wine... then, one more try at the langoustine. Until I think I may never eat again. Or drink wine. Help. We play. And laugh. Is this Heaven?
That evening we go for a walk around the neighborhood. We spend a couple of hours sitting outside at Le Deux Magots. I have a glass of port and a little ice cream. I am French. Tomorrow we must go home.
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