Walkabout: Lucca: First Glance

Lucca is a lifestyle, not necessarily a destination. 

Reading the guidebook on the train to Tuscany, I couldn't help notice that only about 10 pages were dedicated to Lucca. The book bluntly stated that there are no real "sites' to see for tourists in Lucca. You don't come to see the cathedral or the bridge or tower or the (fill in the blank) that you travel to other European destinations to see. You just come to be part of it. 

The pace here is slower and more rewarding. You find little places that are beautiful without feeling like they've been staged for tourists. It's just a snapshot of the Tuscan lifestyle captured behind 4 kilometers of wall. Lucca is one of the last Italian cities still surrounded by a wall. Where other cities took theirs down to provide better access to cars, buses and the tourists they bring. Lucca left its in tact in an effort to preserve a simpler, quieter lifestyle without the need for many traffic lights. It worked. What's left is a wonderful village to wander around that's very proud of being home to Puccini.

The food here is wonderful as well. From the melons you pick up from the farmers' market set up on the piazzo in the morning to wonderful pizza and brochetta. Totelli is a Lucca tradition and can't be missed. It's stuffed pasta, but not really ravioli, that's covered with a meat ragu. The penne arribiatta is also a real treat. Lucca is also well known for its meat and pork and I look forward to trying those as well. Still, pasta was a must first stop for me after spending nearly two weeks eating seafood and tapas. 

Europe so far has been sort of a Goldilocks experience for me. Some cities were a little too big. Some cuisine was a little lacking in flavor. Some places felt a little too economically depressed with people begging for help seemingly every time we stopped for a breath. We've seen some fantastic things on this trip so far, but it really wasn't until we reached Lucca that I felt like we had found the spot that's "just right" for our family. We don't feel like we are passing through to snap a few pictures. We feel as though we are actually living here and that's not something we've felt since we left home.

If you are traveling with teenagers, as we are, then Lucca has the added benefit of being safe, friendly and enclosed by a wall. It's a place where you can set them free on bikes with some Euros and let them do whatever they'd like and then meet back to have dinner together. After being in some of Southern Europe's larger cities, it's nice to be able to relax a little bit as a parent and let them have the freedom they need. After all, when you were a teenager, could you have imagined traveling with your parents nonstop for a month? Me neither. 

So much has already been written about the sights, smells and tastes of Tuscany that I just wouldn't do it justice. Let's just say that, ya, it pretty much looks like it was pictured in that "meet cute rom/com" you saw filmed in Tuscany and that, ya, the tomatoes really are that much better than you get at home. If you can get yourself to slowdown a bit and enjoy it, you might find that "Tuscan Time" agrees with you.

Walkabout: Venice

If Barcelona was about little tastes and experiences, Venice is about big views, big tastes and big crowds. It's about experiencing Italy by a firehose, not a trickle. If you are wondering where much of Europe goes on its vacation, look no further than Venice. No wonder the city is sinking. You can't add a million people to a propped up island and not expect to lose an inch or two every July.

We found the perfect amount of time to experience Venice in July is about 18 hours. We wandered our way in to find the Hotel Moresco, a hotel that's not yet a year old, and enjoyed a glass of prosecco while they checked us in. After quickly dumping our luggage in our rooms, we dove into the city. Somewhere, under layers of tourists posing for updates on their Facebook pages, we saw the Rialto Bridge and the other sites of Venice. 

We found a good way to get around when not just walking was to take the bus, which of course is a boat in Venice. It's about 7 Euros a person and moves faster than the gondola you would have paid 160 Euros for. As they packed us in and the boat swayed from side to side to side again, I couldn't help think that maybe the Costa Concordia wasn't such a fluke after all...that maybe there is a reason that if you study history there isn't a lot of mention about Italy's Navy. Watching the water taxis dodge the bus, the gondolas and each other sort of looked like a water ballet put on by a high school football team. It worked, but it wasn't pretty.

After our kids took in a Da Vinci exhibit and we took in some prosecco, we headed back to the hotel and got cleaned up. Taking pity on us for our overdose of Eurotourists, our hotel manager made arrangements for us to have dinner at a restaurant well off the beaten path, which is an achievement when you are on an island with buses and cruise ships parked around it. There were only eight tables and we were tended to by the owner/chef and what appeared to be his wife and a helper. The restaurant turned out to be a quiet oasis in all of the chaos that's Venice we enjoyed a easy going meal of fresh house-made pastas served simply with a little seafood, some very fresh caprese salad and some balsamic eggplant. Dessert was also not to be missed.

The next day, it was breakfast at the hotel and then off to the train station. We really weren't in Venice long enough to have any great revelations. It's beautiful. You probably should see it once in your life. But, at least in July, it's sort of like seeing Orlando, Florida and thinking you've experienced America. Venice isn't Italy. It's Venice. Take a look, take a taste and then get back on that train.

We've established our next base camp in Tuscany and we can already tell life is a little slower, a lot less crowded and that's just fine with us. 

Walkabout: Barcelona: A Little Goes a Long Ways

Singing for Flamenco dancers sounds a lot like birth. That's not to say it's not moving. It's just meant to convey as much guttural feelings of pain and anguish as possible. When a man performs it, it's sort of the like a harmonic kidney stone. When a woman performs it, well, all I can say is I've heard that really deep groan/scream before and it involved the arrival of our kids.

Flamenco dancers don't really smile. They are passionate and proud. At the end of the dance, which involves a lot of stomping and clapping, they look at you with the same sort of look that Eminem gives his audiences before he throws the mic to the floor in contempt. "Ya...I just did that. Clap if you want. I don't care." That's sort of the message you get.

Barcelona is about little great things. Walking around the Bario Gottik you constantly find little squares with little gems of places to sit down and take in musicians, gymnasts, fire dancers, etc. My daughter's favorite by far was the gymnasts that used nothing but the concrete beneath them to put on an amazing show.

The food is the same way. Your best bet is often Tapas. They are little bits of goodness that depend on what that particular establishment serves. Often, they are stacked on top of the bar in a tapas bar and you get to walk along and point at what looks good to you. Add some sangria and you've got a nice snack to hold you so you and your family are ready for a 10 p.m. dinner. 

Is Bigger Better?

We've visited a lot of churches on this trip so far, from an impressive monastery in Lisbon to a quaint neighborhood church in Venice. In Barcelona, we saw a city trying to decide if enough is enough. The Cathedral Barcelona is big and beautiful. We were accidentally lucky enough to be the first ones in for the tour of the day and a nice worker adopted us and rushed us over to an elevator we didn't even know exist. A few minutes later and we were way up, I mean way up, on scaffolding bridging the roof of the church. It was quite a view and I was proud of my son for overcoming issues he's had in the past with heights and just take it all in. We toured the large cathedral and found it steeped in history and beautiful. 

Next, we went to see the Segrada Familia which is still under construction and will be for a very long time. It has a construction crane hovering over it, which is kind of strange to see given most of the churches we've seen on this trip didn't involve cranes or powertools. It's big, really big. But, I have to say that to this non-architect novice, it just doesn't have the power and depth that the traditional Cathedral Barcelona across town conveys. It's got lots of twists and turns and liberally uses colored light, but it seems to lack the message that you find in the Cathedral. It feels a little like the church recruiting Vegas developer Steve Wynn to build a "mega church" and it just got a little out of control. As I noted before, I know nothing about architecture and I'm sure there is a long line of Spanish experts with clubs lining up to tell me what I didn't quite get during my visit.

If Barcelona has a message, from a razor thin shred of Iberia ham to a small stage full of Flamenco dancers, it is "keep it small and keep it good. The rest will work itself out."

Walkabout: Stiges: AbFab!

After spending a few days here, one gets the sense that if Patton decided to land his army in Stiges during WWII that they would have landed in the middle of a huge disco party with each soldier greeted with a Red Bull (diet) and vodka. Instead of being declared "Victorious," they would have instead been declared "Absolutely Fabulous!"

Getting Your Groove On

If there is a routine to Stiges, it goes something like this. You wake up at 10 a.m. and find a light bite to start your day. Then, it's off to the beach to nap or perhaps take a walk or jog. At 2 p.m., it's time to think about lunch and muscles aren't a bad suggestion. Back to the beach or, if you are feeling ambitious, walk the entire length of the nine beaches so you can see all of the waterfront. No need to rush, but you'll want to be ready for dinner by 9 p.m. or so. You don't want to go before 9 p.m. and things start to slow down on non-weekend nights at restaurants around 11 p.m. 

The Good Stuff

The cuisine is a real treat here. It's amazing to see just how much of the bounty of the sea is on display every single meal. Whether it's shellfish paella, lobster stew, black rice a razor clams, dorado (sea bass), gambas (prawns often served as tapas), it's just mind boggling to see how much is served from the sea every single day. Meals are often influenced by saffron, paprika, onion, peppers and garlic, so you can imagine how flavorful the bright red-orange plates are that you are served. Not ready for a big meal? No problem. Tapas are a great way to go. Go to places like El Cable in Old Town and you can enjoy as much or as little with flavorful bites served with either Estrella, the local beer, or Damm Lemon, beer and lemonade that is popular here. 

Still, some restaurants try and buck the trend for vacationing Europeans seeking something new and exciting. "Oriental Tapas" will get you sushi. There's a "Road House" in town that serves burgers, hot dogs and Budweiser. Down the beach from us, there's a TexMex place called Jalapeneos and a Brazilian grill place where you get your own individual BBQ and an Italian place that is the first to fill-up and the last to empty out as tourists decide to have that Catalan favorite, pizza.  Seriously, my advice to you is to have what the locals have. If it's bright red/orange and full of seafood, give it a go. 

The Beach

Used to U.S. beaches? Well, there are a few difference here. First of all, your neighbors maybe topless,  bottomless or both. Just go with it. For me, the biggest difference was the noise level. People don't come to the beach to veg. The come to talk...a lot. With 100 conversations going on 5-10 languages, it's quite a "conversation blender" you find yourself in. Still, close your eyes and take it all in, even if you don't understand enough to know whether or not your neighbors are talking about you.

Nothing Beats Tradition

Even in Stiges, nothing brings the family together more than a traditional walk after dinner. Since we generally ate late, this was an 11:30 p.m. to midnight walk through Old Town. You can imagine what Stiges might have been like as a fishing village as you hear the sounds of Abba, Gloria Gaynor and Beyonce wafting through the streets. Come to the hub of Old Town and you'll see a sea of hundreds of men, seated two by two, waiting to get their groove on as the nearby clubs ramp up. "Look son, it's a transvestite singing show tunes!" "Look son, it's a cross dresser singing Motown!" These are the times that etch memories into young minds and I have no doubt that our kids will remember their time in Stiges. If Disneyland is the happiest place on Earth, we may have possibly found one of the gayest...not that there's anything wrong with that.

Seriously, I'd come back to Stiges in a heartbeat and I'd bring the whole family. Sure, if you are a straight family here you are in the 20% minority along with some lost British tourists working on their first tan. Still, you feel welcome and can't help feel like you are part of the festivities. It's also led to some interesting conversations with our kids about gays and lesbians. It turns out that in high school the gay kids are seen as the fun ones and that the Pride Parade in SF is a sought after destination for fun, regardless of your sexual orientation. For middle schoolers, gay is just not that big of deal. Some people are, some people aren't...end of story. Things have come a long way since I was in high school in California's Central Valley. 

Overall, I would highly recommend Stiges as a destination to relax and get a taste of Spain. You don't need to pack much, just some shorts, a couple shirts and, if so inclined, that bright orange Speedo you've been saving. It's up to you whether or not you decide to wear the Speedo when you get here.

Walkabout: Cascais: Cheeseburger in Paradise

Sometimes you just need a cheeseburger, man.

But, let's back up a step. The evening before we came to the picturesque village of Cascais, we had a final dinner in Lisbon. We went to a seafood place on the water and placed our orders: "Seabass, Seabass, Grouper, Octopus."

I'm sorry, what was that last one and who said it?

As the waiter's eyebrows rose a bit, we all looked at my 13-year-old son as he confirmed what he wanted to order, the roasted octopus. After all, if the locals eat it, how bad could it be?

What arrived looked like it had been scraped off the hull of the Nautilus and served by Captain Nemo himself. It was three large "legs" joined at the "hip" served on a platter. My son dove in and initially liked   the flavor. What he didn't like was the sensation that the tentacles were trying to bond to his tongue. Now, my general rule is that, real or perceived, if you can't figure out whether you are eating your food or your food is trying to eat you, then it may be time to move on to something else. 

The next day, we arrived in Cascais, a fishing village turned yacht harbor turned tourist destination on the west coast of Portugal, and decided to walk around. While taking in the sights, my son started to look increasingly "hung over" from the previous night's experience. I realized that we had a case of Post Octopus Traumatic Syndrome (POTS) on our hands. The cure was obvious: Cheeseburger.

We rushed him STAT to the nearest English pub and ordered a cheeseburger and he was soon among the living again. Now you might be saying, "But you are in Portugal." My experience is that any European destination that attracts tourists has an English pub and usually an Irish pub. This is so English, Irish and Australian tourists can travel great distances to drink beer and watch rugby and soccer, things they would never do at home. 

We are enjoying Cascais so far. The beach is quite popular. Every morning around 8:00 a.m. there is a steady stream of people marching along carrying towels and wearing swimsuits to sleepily find their 3X6 foot spot on the beach. It sort of looks like refugees from Malibu marching to Manhattan Beach. They don't look chipper, but they are determined to claim their spot.

We've found the food here to be better than Lisbon. It's the same fresh ingredients, but combined with some more interesting flavors and preparations. For instance, sea bass, which is grilled and served with boiled potatoes and carrots in Lisbon, is instead prepared here on top of Sicilian-flavored couscous with some nice peppers sautéed in garlic and olive oil on top. Whether it's the street performers, the English screaming at the rugby game on the pubs' big screens or the food itself, there's just a little more flavor to be found in this charming village. 

  

Walkabout: Lisbon

Lisbon is a city of mixed messages about pride. It's a city that spruces up its amazing landmarks: churches, a monastery and of course a castle. But, it's also a city that refuses to pick up its dog pooh if you happen to wander a block off the beaten tourist track.

It's a city in which you can find eight restaurants lined up facing a red suspension bridge with two towers, each restaurant offering the same menu. Now, this would never happen on our home turf in San Francisco, where restaurants facing a completely different looking bridge offer chowder both in a bowl or a bread bowl. Now, that's variety!

The food in Lisbon is simple in a good way. It's a variety of grilled fish, so fresh that restaurants proudly display their fish in stacks as you walk in, usually on ice, but sometimes not so much. I tried the local favorite, grilled sardines, and found them to be salty and good. But, if you try them, be prepared to tasted sardine for a long long time.

While I appreciate the food here, I have to confess that if we stayed in Lisbon any longer that I would be that American creeping down the dark alley at nighttime. When approached by someone offering Portuguese whacky weed for sale, I would whip out my money roll and say, "No thanks, but I'll give you 20 Euro for a bottle of Siracha or Chulula." Clean, fresh and simple is great, but I also like to find a little complicated food from time to time.

My nearly sixteen year-old-daughter was lucky enough to find six members of the Portuguese Navy on the street for an impromptu photo session and they all looked pretty pleased to be part of it. I could tell when we walked by a construction site earlier in the day to hear enthusiastic whistles directed at my daughter that being a father of a teenager is going to be different in Europe than it is in the U.S. God help me when we get to Spain and Italy.

It's funny comparing the tourist trade in Lisbon to San Francisco and seeing the similarities. One of the things to do in Lisbon is to take a Funicular up a "winding steep grade." In the travel shows, it looks like quite the wild ride. Well, we took it and it was sort of a ready, set...wait, we're done. That was it? It reminds me of all those tourists lined up to go down Lombard Street.

French Tourist #1 (Renee Dupont Castile LeVrai): "Zthat was it? It's one block long?"

French Tourist #2 (Pierre Bastille LeChien): "Merde!"

Well, our experience wasn't a "merde," be it wasn't exactly the Indiana Jones Ride at Disneyland either. Still, it did end us up at a park where we found a nice pitcher of sangria and a great view of the sites we had seen that day. We also saw a monastery with 25 confessionals lined up to handle the sailers of sailing galleons as they came and went. It was sort of like mass spiritual redemption, kind of like of The Pope and Henry Ford and gotten together to decide how to speed up the process a bit.  

Today we our celebrating a big arrival. It came at 2 a.m. and, after five days on the road, we are the proud parents of our luggage, which finally caught up to us. I want to be discreet and not mention the name of the airlines that lost our luggage. Let's just call them "United Kingdom Airways" so no one is the wiser. Still, it is humbling as a traveler to come back after a night on the town and wash your underwear in the sink to get ready for the next day. Yes, "Glamour" is my middle name.

What's a walkabout?

Well, as you probably already know, it's an Australian thing where a young man goes on a walkabout to find himself. As a family of four with two teenagers, we are attempting to do that as a family, before high school sports and, all too quickly, college sends everyone on their separate ways. We are taking a month to meet ourselves...and make some new friends in the process. We can already tell this is a good thing. Not that we didn't talk before, but when you are exploring new places as a family, you tend to do a lot of "Hey, look at this!" to each other and then chat about what you've found. 

No Crankiness Allowed

So far, we've found the people of Portugal to be warm and friendly and going way out of their way to try and understand our mispronounced attempts at "Thank you." ("Albondigas!!!") and my way too Mexican pronunciation of "por favor." I can see them mentally picturing me with a sombrero on my head at a Chevy's and they think to themselves, "Dude, this is not Cabo. We don't even speak Spanish here!" 

We're on to our next stop, a village on the coast of Portugal. I now have my full wardrobe of "American Middle-Aged Dad Wear," so I can truly impress the locals. 

    

I'm Ready for My Close Up, Mr. DeMille

Are we as interesting as we think we are?

This is a question I've been asking myself of late as I roam around the social media world posting quips, comments, snarkis and photos. It's made me aware of how others chronicle their lives, especially on Facebook.

In the old time days before phones had cameras that posted immediately to Facebook, we would take pictures of our vacations by shooting photos of things we were seeing. Then, we would subject friends, relatives, neighbors, anyone willing to sit for an hour, to slide "shows" or albums of the pictures from the vacation. "Hey look, there's a drive-thru tree! There's Mickey! There's a giant ball of string! There are two zebras at the zoo. It must be spring!" It was all about capturing things we were seeing. Things other than ourselves, for the most part.

Now that we've advanced to the digital age of sharing way too much way too soon, it's more about "Hey, there's me! Look, there I am again. Here's a picture of me standing in front of something. Here's a picture of me eating something. Here's picture of me running from the zebras who clearly didn't want to be disturbed."

Have we become the "Me Generation" where we think the most interesting thing we can share is ourselves? Sometimes, I wonder. There's a poster among my Facebook friends that we'll call Mr. X. Mr. X went to visit San Francisco and then posted an album from his trip. What did he post? Coit Tower? The Golden Gate Bridge? The Transamerica Pyramid? Well, actually not. He posted pictures of himself in his hotel room. "Look, it's me!" Why would anyone want to see any of the other sights?

Perhaps it's the infusion of Reality TV into our lives. Anyone can be on television and be elevated from a face in the crowd to a real star. Stars don't have to be a Harrison Ford-type from a big movie. They can be the video store clerk that finds herself just trying to survive for one more episode on a reality show and cling to stardom just five minutes longer. They can also be someone who is famous for being famous. A Hilton, a Kardashian or someone else who is famous for being on camera, but has not actually done anything to actually be famous for. It's a little mind bending when you think about it. Why are they famous? Because, they are. If that's the case, then, guess what, you too can be famous for being famous if you can get yourself out there enough. Maybe that's what some folks are shooting for on Facebook and other sites. "Look, it's me again and guess what I'm doing in this picture..." It's not YouTube. It's MeTube.

Are we arrogant, conceited, delusional...or, is this just the new normal? Everyone in effect has their own broadcast channel and instead of getting together for a glass of wine to share our adventures in person, we just tune into each others' channels to see what we are all up to. And, does that make our worlds larger or smaller? Which captures the greater adventure, the picture your parents took of the Grand Canyon when they visited in 1972 or the image you just posted to show how unbelievably long the line is at Starbucks right now? Perhaps because it is now so easy to chronicle mediocre activities, we are not pushing ourselves to have real adventures to share.

I'd ponder this more, but I need to go Instagram an image of myself typing this blog. Exciting stuff!