Luna Caprese

Capri is a place which does not really exists outside our fantasies. For this reason it is a place where you can do things you would not do in real life.

In Capri a pretty girl walks down the streets with a white linen dress and a wreath of flowers in her hair. A restaurant charges 75 euros for "service" and specifies that tip is not included. One finds herself pushed on a stage to do the "mossa" move. A beautiful woman makes a friend very happy, at least for a day or two.

But all of this never really happened, all of this is nothing more than a story to tell. And tomorrow it will not exist any longer.

My first Lithuanian Baptism

Like Virgil to Dante or the Mad Hatter to Alice, my Vilnius friend took it upon himself to guide me through the wonders of my long weekend. My first Lithuanian baptism felt a bit like Alice in wonderland. Beautiful and eventful but also somewhat upside down. Counter-intuitive, so to say.

Quick was the baptism itself, celebrated in some fairy tale (sort of) language in which I caught barely the name of my god-daughter. 

Anyway I must have accepted my responsibilities of godmother, since I signed some paper, to be stored for eternity in the archives of a church in some remote Lithuanian village where the ancestors of the baby girl were born. An image of the world upside-down was returned by the pond close to the Panemune castle where we had our lovely post-Baptism picnic, before proceeding to the final destination in Sturmai. 

Not sure if Sturmai is a village or simply the name of a small pier on the lagoon with a couple of boats, a hotel and a restaurant. More than enough of the good stuff anyway: sunshine, fresh fish and wi-fi, all while sitting at a table and sipping white wine facing the sunset. 

Strict rules apply here: only catch of the day can be ordered (hence pike-perch everyday); only Austrian Riesling can be served with Lithuanian fresh water fish (no French or Italian wines can ever match); no lemon can be put on the fish ("In Italy, would you allow Parmigiano on fish? Same here: if you put lemon on fish you go to hell").

In an upside down world, an Italian can happen to be stopped by a Lithuanian restaurant owner before breaching a food-related rule.

In the same counter-intuitive world, the same Italian can get a tan from laying in the sun and bathing in the Baltic sea in cute Nida, on the other side of the lagoon. Admittedly "bathing" may be an optimistic description of getting into the 19 degrees water for a couple of seconds.

Top 5 differences with Italian beaches, my personal "Virgil" asked.

1. Water is cold; 2. water is not very salty; 3. open air changing booths; 4. kids are not screaming; 5. No, thanks I really do not need an umbrella at 55° 18' 29" North.

Five days later

 It took five days, a weekend at the Curonian lagoon, fresh water fish for dinner, a few bottles of Austrian riesling and French cider and that strange anxiety I harboured upon arrival has disappeared.


Vilnius oggi è inondata dal sole, semplice e imponente. E soprattutto accogliente e rilassante. Come quando sono arrivata, non e' cambiato granche'. Ma Vilnius è la scusa perfetta, allora perche' non usarla?

Different eyes and different perspectives: today we climbed two belfries and one (Gediminas) castle hill, to decide which one held the best view of the city.

And the winner is ... the University's St. John church in the old town: for there you can get the most central view of the city (the jury's motivation).


But I need to learn more: now I have a little girl to visit in Vilnius.  

Vilnius again

A small airport with a feeling of a train station. Wide streets, northern lights, old style buildings and not so many people around.

It feels bizarre entering Vilnius once again. A feeling like the end of the world is approaching. Of course Vilnius is only the excuse, not the cause. It is me generating these feelings.

Or perhaps it is also the bath tub parked in the garage.

But the first memory of Vilnius soon comes back, that of Captain Ramius of Red October. Handsome, smart, in control. And native of Vilnius, that he abandoned forever. That Vilnius was an exotic place behind the iron curtain, mysterious. 

Today's Vilnius, the only one I know, is richer, clean, growing. EU flags show the renovation projects funded by Brussels. In 5 months the Euro will replace the Litas. Euroscepticism does not belong here. Yet.

While reestablishing familiarity with old friends whom I should see more often, the best youth of Vilnius is preparing to hit the town, beautiful, well dressed, queuing to get into the best bar in town, ordering the best Spritz and Mojito. But we are not part of Generation Y, we will go to a much better place just next door.

Worldcup in Barcelona

The last time in Barcelona is not a good memory. Not Barcelona's fault. She was just the wrong place at the wrong time.

Or maybe I should not have been there. Or perhaps I was precisely supposed to be there, just to be able to endure the toughest moment in my life which would come a few days later.

But not this year. This year Barcelona carries no heavy weight, just suntanning, good food, enjoying friends. Oh yes, and the football world cup. Spain has not done too well this time, but in Barcelona some people may actually be rooting for Holland, so no big deal.

We are based in the Olympic Village (rather than some nice barrio) with easier access to the Barceloneta beaches. Priorities.
This time there is no Heineken Ice Bar on the beach to give us funny stories to recount years later. This is the time of the Rock bar with true Catalans and 70's music in Gracia, Opium with thousand drunk foreigners in Barceloneta, beach bar with big screen to watch Brazil and Holland before sunset, Pakistanis selling drinks illegally on the beach.

And "bomba" tapas for good memory.

Le baiser du Cinquantenaire

Love in Brussels mid-summer night does not go unnoticed, especially during the just discovered Noa Moon's cheerful Paradise.

Moon? You serious? After the post from a couple of days ago?

Half-moon

Tonight my friends ordered half-moons for dinner at the usual Italian restaurant. And tonight that I feel no interest in sleeping, a half-moon rose at east, big, hazy and in the colour of amber.

I always loved the moon. I used to dream that from a little door hidden behind the sink in the bathroom of my childhood home, you could go directly to the moon. And it was peaceful and nice up there. It was never clear if there existed a way to go back to my bathroom but, in truth, in my dream there was no hint that I was even thinking of looking for a way back.

And then there are the memories of a splendid moon seen from a desert in the middle east, an implacable one during a sleepless night in a hospital, or a bright one shining through the window of someone who could have been special and never wanted to be.

But today there is no full moon. Today this is a half-moon, like this half-baked story, or this half-hearted message. Beautiful still. Fully beautiful, I dare to say. Rising and shining. And yet half. And so will she remain. For a while still.

Wedding in Chia

Who needs travelling to the Caribbean when you have got Sardinian beaches like Tuerredda?

And a great way to start summer: scenic wedding on the beach, great party afterwards and, icing on the cake, a couple of days to spend on stunning beaches.

After having seen the north of Sardinia, Santa Teresa, Alghero and Maddalena years ago as well as Villasimius in the south more recently, once again a great time in Chia. Looking forward to the next teaching invitation - else I would need to plan a real holiday around Oristano. Tough.

And Cagliari is always a pleasure, even when being there for the fifth time. Will 2014 be in the records as the year of repeating the good stuff discovered in the past? Best ice cream in town in Piazza Yenne, best ciccioneddas alla campidanese and saffron meatballs at Sa Piola, best views from Libarium at Bastione Santa Croce. Unfortunately my favourite Ristorante 51 no longer serves the great fish I had come to appreciate a few years ago. No problem: new addition to the list: Luigi Pomata and his tuna tartare on a bed of cream of buffalo mozzarella (!).

Back to the Holy Land

Plans for the long weekend? Not yet.
Tel Aviv? Ok.

That is how much it takes me to plan another (fifth or sixth? I do not even remember) visit to my friends living in the holy land. That, and a Jetairfly ticket, this time even directly from Brussels instead of Liege.

And so here I am again: flip-flops, summer dress, straw hat and sunglasses, walking along sderot Ben Gurion, enjoying the free wifi, choosing the coffee shop for today until finally heading to the beach until sunset.

And after sunset, it is time for the gastronomic part. The result is two new additions to the lists of great places to go and eat in Tel Aviv: Onza, a bit posh and very refined at the Jaffa flea market, and friendly, cozy Dalida in Florentin.

Admittedly, having 35 degrees in May is perhaps a bit exaggerated but, after all, better to stock up a bit of heat. God knows what Brussels summer will look like (*).

In Jerusalem,of course, things are different and we would be meeting and talking to Jesus (literally).

Icing on the cake, the smoothest departure I ever had. Perhaps due to my new passport showing no signs of my suntanning in Tunisia or climbing in Jordan, nearly no question asked at the security check. Except the typical embarrassing ones such as: "why such a big suitcase if you are coming just for a weekend?" Ahem.

Point taken. Next time I will stay longer.


(*) update from yourself in July: good you soaked some good sun back in May and even got a little burned. Your July in Brussels will be 15 degrees and no-stop rain. You were happy that Israeli security was smooth and did not make you miss the flight back? You will regret that in a few weeks, darling.

Treviso city

This year this blog is busy with several short trips .

And so one day the destination was orderly, clean, cute Treviso. 

Where people tell you that you are a bit far from your hotel and it turns out it is a 10-minute walk. 

Where every two years a bunch of people gathers and gets excited talking about actions for damages in a cartel case or access to the last mile.

Where parties must stop at 1:30 am and there is no way to either look for the next one or call a taxi to drive you home.

Koningsdag on the Amstel

There are several eccentric things one can do in her life.

Visiting the Roman museum in Dublin; trying to go clubbing in sleepy Bonn on a weekday; looking for a slice of pizza in Casablanca; go walking along traffic-jammed Rue the la Loi to get the feeling of Brussels; bringing your hairdrier at the Ngoro Ngoro campground; paying a Bedouin with credit card in the desert around Petra.

But age brings the wisdom - or mainstream-ness - and one may happen to end up doing also normal stuff, such as going back to Holland on the most Dutch of the days, Koningsdag, riding a bike for 20 km along the Amstel, finishing with a picture of a windmill and a slice of appelgebak.

And yet, why  would one be too normal or too obvious. Why not getting a fine for speeding (by some extra 9 km) on an empty 5 lane-highway where the silly speed limit is set at 100 as a compromise with the environmentalist party?

Time for lakes

There are times when you hit the road and set off for 3 or 4 thousand km. 

The destination does not matter too much. And the memories you like to keep are journey events, not monuments or places: a mountain pass closed to traffic in the middle of night, missing an awaited call while making it through the Gotthard tunnel, mixing up city names on the GPS and ending up going around the Zurich lake for an hour, discovering that in Luxembourg a bottle of water costs 25 cents.

Besides, all in all, it was a ride from lake to lake: Zurich, Lucerne and Como, all the way down to Monticchio. 

Rich, beautiful, famous Como lake, mentioned in literary masterpieces, surrounded by the stunning Alps, home of celebrities and source of wonderful photos.

 

But Monticchio, what's that? Just a low profile, uncared, unknown volcanic lake in the deep south, home and source of some of the best (and yet ignored) mineral waters around.

Possibly another of those symbols of a land not believing its own promises.

Un tempo piccolo

Stavo per dirti che ho smesso di provare a dare un senso alle cose che succedono. E avrei aggiunto che le bastonate prese ti insegnano la serenità per prendere la vita come viene.

E avrei mentito. Forse solo per non perdere l'occasione di dire una frase a effetto.
Perché invece non sopporto le cose che non hanno spiegazione. Un padre che muore, un uomo insistente, uno che non insiste, un no grazie di fronte a un'offerta che non si poteva rifiutare. E continuo ad perderci la testa e le notti, finché il tempo, galantuomo, mi passa una tazza di tè e nuovi indovinelli da risolvere.

Diventare grandi.

Sitting on an unstable tabouret

At the end, not more than two months did spring last.

In some parts of the world (or is it just for some people?) it is not summer which comes after spring but a new winter. After hopes have been blossoming together with nature, everything froze again and disappointment is all the more bitter. And all the more compelling the question: will I be able to endure yet another winter?

Another hour, another day, another week slowly go by, swinging between the acknowledgment that the brightest memories of this out-of-season spring will stay with you and the frustration for not getting the reason why all this had to abruptly finish.
Hanging in the balance as if sitting on a too tall barstool.

In Place du Jeu de Balle a broken saxophone lies abandoned on a bed of old cutlery. Will someone who understands a sax ever get the idea of looking down, knowing it is just a cutlery stall? Who could ever think they all were just pieces of the same metal?

For a moment I wished I understood saxophones.
Now I wish someone understood we are not all the same piece of metal.

That time of my life

Strange time it was. What time was it? Time of wishes and expectations. There were struggles and fights too. And high temperatures. With mood swings, unbearable weakness and unstoppable energy.

D'altronde, così sembrava pensarla anche il cavallo emo dello Chateau de la Hulpe.

Blame it on the unexpected sun, on the sudden outburst of pollen, on the yellow light - or maybe on the purple leds. A day feels like the end of the world, another one feels like the beginning of life. Which is actually the same thing.

Alla fine era solo un compleanno a Bruxelles.
Oppure: all'inizio era solo un compleanno a Bruxelles. Dice: it's my party and I cry if I want to. Ma non è che si deve per forza piangere.

In fact, at the end, a smile is just right, because of happiness or because of an unforeseen song from many years ago.

No, I am not going

I thought about it but I am not going to watch Philomena.

Let us start from the beginning, from Terence, the ancient Roman playwright and his most famous work Hecyra, i.e. the mother in law. In this play there is a girl who is raped by a drunk idiot. Later the girl is married to the son of the lady of the title but when he discovers that she is pregnant from the rape, he sends her back to her parents. Happy ending: it turns out that the idiot who raped the girl was none other than her future husband, so he can take her back and live happily ever after. The lucky girl's name was Filumena.

Then there was Eduardo de Filippo. He also wrote about some Filumena. A strong and pragmatic lady, former prostitute who wants to marry one of her ex clients from whom she had a child and with whom she lived most of her life. He is a conventional, selfish and clueless idiot but he is wealthy and she needs him to take care of all her three sons and not just the one she had from him. Since she does not reveal which one is the son, he reluctantly accepts the deal.

And finally came Philomena the movie, this Irish lady who had a son when she was very young. The boy was taken away from her and she spends most of the film going around the world looking for him.

So, whoever gets this name seems to be a single mother, to get a lot of crap from life and love a bunch of useless men.

I think I will be waiting for a movie where Philomena looks like this, speaks 15 languages, is black belt in judo and aircraft pilot and travels the world killing bastards until she is promoted head of the CIA. Or pope. Or dies. Still have to make up my mind.

Brianza my love

Oh yes, I almost forgot.

In one of my wherabouts, I have been to Brianza and visited Monza, including the (desert) F1 circuit where information is provided bilingually - or almost.

It was a pleasant stay all in all, done bits of targeted shopping in the main street (did not find out if there was another one though) and, most of all,  survived a 'challenging' cuisine - successfully managing to avoid cassöla for myself and for our muslim observant colleague who had not quite caught the main ingredients of the typical dish.

Batik of change

The moment I saw this silky batik in a little shop in Koh Lanta, I knew where it would fit.

There are different types of batik and this one is not for wearing, it is to be hung on the wall. Its colour and the decoration were just perfect for a certain wall. And it was also the perfect memory of a beautiful land: to be hung close to the shores of a familiar sea, as a reminder of the exotic beauty of an Ocean far away. And after all, a souvenir has more value if it has a meaning, if it fits someone and no one else. Well, it took me more to write this down that to actually buy it.

Life is full of unexpected contingencies and it just so happens that the batik never made it to its perfect spot. The batik is in great shape and is now in Brussels, waiting for its final destination. But the wall to which it was destined is none of my business any longer. And so, the souvenir will stay here for a while, in the no-man's land of the unplanned, until I find its new home. 

Things happen sometimes and then a souvenir from Thailand unwillingly becomes a batik of change.

Epiphany in Rome

Rome has not appeared in a post for a while, despite my having been there a few times a year. Somehow it feels a little odd talking about a visit to Rome. Perhaps, it is a bit like having to figure out whether you are still in love with your ex: when in doubt, do not mention.

Yet, I did not have to figure it out: of course I am still in love with the city. And anyway, who said Rome is the past only?

Be that as it may, there you go, I am back again for a couple of days and fully sinking in the homecoming nostalgia awakened by the once familiar smell, nuance of blue of the sky, winter unexpected warmth. In fact, the sky is so blue and the sun so shiny that it feels more like March (or May, if you are in Brussels).

Yet, it is 6 January, Epiphany or la Befana, the last day of the Christmas holidays and the whole population seems to be taking a stroll in the city centre. So, it looks like I may not be able to walk through the crowds and make it to Piazza Navona today. In the meantime, the jet lag has kicked in, probably helped by those bucatini all'amatriciana flambé at Trattoria Vecchia Roma. In fact, I would not mind a nap in the sun. And as always I would not mind staying here a bit longer. But my plane leaves tomorrow morning early and the show must go on.

Koh Lanta

It took us a while and a bit of a struggle but eventually we found our little piece of paradise in Koh Lanta - leaving aside the fact of staying at a place called "Palace Hill" where only one of the two words was an accurate description of the - ahem - hotel. 

The best thing about our Palace was the affiliation to the "Palace beach", a more accurate match of name and architecture-location and also the best place to splurge with daily massages (even Thai massages for the brave), a Chung at sunset (Singha tasting too watery after a while), fresh fish and prawns barbecue on the beach and spilling the beans with new friends.

In the programme, also an excursion to the "four islands", of which we actually saw only one, due to the impossibility of convincing us to leave that beach after a mere half hour.

Concluding the stay with a fun mega-tuktuk ride to "Last beach" (or Bamboo Beach), at the not-so-far end of the island, to escape, just for a few hours, the lineup of restaurants and massage centres.

Ready to go back home. Or not.

Jet lag in Bangkok

Lack of time, lack of information, lack of energy. And plenty of sunshine, plenty of gold, plenty of people. So did the visit of Bangkok start, on a long day with very little sleep and very little food.

It felt like being in a dream, where things are new, funny, messy, shining but one does not fully feel them. 

According to the news, somewhere in town there were riots and protests against the government, but not quite at the Grand Palace, at the Pagoda or at the Wat Pho temple, home to the 43 metres long reclining Buddha and supposedly the birthplace of Thai massages.

In a few days the rebels plan to "shut down" the capital, but that will be after we are gone. And, anyway, now is time to explore the route to the southern beaches rather than the one to democracy in Thailand. 

More Bangkok indulgence before leaving? Highly recommended: a hot Tom Yam and Pad Thai for dinner and a B52 or a Mojito at the Asiatique Riverfront. 

Searching for paradise

Probably this is what everyone came here for. Thai beaches appeared in so many occasions as illustrations of paradise that people from all over the world now expect to find heaven everywhere in the Andaman sea.

And so the tourist thinks that perhaps that is going to happen just in one of those organised tours with fellow hopefuls, on that cute long tail boat the travel agency booked for you or on a fast speedyboat. Oh well, if nothing else is available, perhaps a liner ferry service to paradise will do too.

One is certain to find what he is looking for here. The price to pay is having to elbow your way through paradise across thousands of others sharing the same quest.

Most dream beaches here in South Thailand seem to be victims of their own success. Leonardo di Caprio winks from the Koh Phi Phi brochure, small archipelago Ko Khao Phing Kan is best known as James Bond island after Roger Moore's adventures here in 1974. As a result, long queues, paradise pics featuring some hundreds visitors, swimming your way through a cave to a hidden lagoon via a human traffic jam of sort.

Everything Thai seems so beautiful and so cheap. And so crowded of tourists.  Makes you fear it won't last for long.

Happy 2014

And that's it for now.

Although old Phuket town, half an hour away from Patong, does retain some charme, the impact of mass tourism on this part of the country is not for the better.

Farewell Phuket.