Burano Island

Sipping champagne and listening to jazz in Piazza San Marco with my corporate pilot made me wonder if  life could get any better.  But within moments, my dreams were shattered again with his abrupt departure to the States, leaving me alone with an unfinished bottle of champagne and my imagination of what might have been.

So, spending time alone on Burano and Murano Island the day after my surprise rendezvous with Tall, Dark and Handsome left me with mixed emotions. And a slight hangover. 

But, I was in Venice.  I survived  heartbreak once and lived to tell the story.  And now a new chapter was potentially unfolding and I wasn’t going to let this little glitch spoil the splendor of Venice.

Off to Burano Island I went and when I stepped foot on land, I could have sworn I was on a Hollywood set in California.  It wasn’t possible for such a charming  place to exist.  It was picture perfect.  Life should only be this perfect. And beautiful.

~Welcome to Burano Island~

A local told me that all the houses on this delightful island used to look alike and were painted drab gray.  Fishermen would leave for months at a time and when they returned weary and a bit drunk, they couldn’t find their homes.  Eventually, every building was painted a different color, making it easier for the tired men of the sea to find their own dwelling. And as a result, Burano Island  looks like a postcard.  A blind photographer could take a breathtaking picture of this island without issue.  It’s just that gorgeous everywhere you turn.

Folklore or truth? It doesn’t really matter to me. This quaint village speaks for itself and left me a little breathless by its beauty and charm.



The island is known for its intricate lace work. Tourists visit to watch a group of women sitting together sewing their specialized stitch.

Each woman passes her little piece of fabric to the next woman who in turn sews her intricate stitch onto the fabric and then passes it on to the next woman. Within weeks or months, magnificent works made of lace are created.

From tablecloths to wedding dresses, which take over a year to sew, all of the pieces are one-of-a-kind and worth every Euro they charge.

I believe people not only visit to see the century old technique of lace making-which is mesmerizing to watch-but visit to take in the splendor of the island.  It’s a perfect photo-op.

I have always fantasized about living in Italy, but wondered how I would make a living. And then it came to me. If I wanted to move to Burano Island, I would open an optometry office because after generations of women stitching miniscule intricate designs for 8-10 hours a day, their eyes must be shot.

                                      I’d make a killing selling rhinestone covered bi-focals.

                                                                   I see that clearly now.





One Enchanted Evening

I don’t mind traveling alone, but if a tall dark, handsome man wants to join me…who am I to say no?

What are the chances that my corporate pilot would find me again in Piazza San Marco in Venice, Italy?  Talk about déjà vu all over again.

Sparks flew under the Venetian sky and suddenly the annoying pushcart peddlers and salesmen throwing glowing orbs in the sky disappeared.  No one else existed. It was just me and Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome.  A serendipitous moment.

It was as though I was watching a Fellini film:  The camera pans the interior of the piazza and then zooms in for a close-up of the lovers as music washes over them. The world seems to be moving in slow motion.

Ahhh…if only life could imitate the cinema.  We could cut or edit the ugly parts and zoom in, seeing their unbridled emotion through a rose-colored camera lens.  Their intimate rendezvous then fades out slowly.       

So many unspoken words needed to be said, but that would have to wait.  As we listened to the jazz orchestra playing Duke Ellington’s Prelude to a Kiss, he pulled me close and drew his lips near mine.  Instinctively I knew that we were going to improvise our own music later that night.

Half way through a bottle of chilled champagne, my tall dark handsome man’s cell phone rang.  It was his boss.  His child was gravely ill and needed to be flown back to the US immediately.

Fate intervened.  He embraced me in the Piazza where he had stolen my heart so many years ago when I was on my honeymoon, alone.  Our serendipitous meeting was bitter sweet. But I knew in my heart, I’d see him again.  Or so I hoped. 

Jewish Ghetto Walking Tour~Venice

Regardless of your religion, the Jewish Quarter is a must-see. The charming neighborhood has darling shops, cafes, and of course synagogues.

 I’ve been on the ghetto tour several times and was amazed to find I was one of the few Jewish tourists.  The word ghetto does not signify slum as it does in the US. "Ghetto" is derived from "gettare," which means to caste in metal.  Originally the Jewish Ghetto was where many metal foundries were established and ultimately the word ghetto became synonymous for Jewish Quarters throughout European cities.

Cathedrals in Europe are monumental structures compared to synagogues.  Although diminutive in size by comparison, synagogues are regal in architectural design and steeped in centuries of tradition.

In the Jewish museum, tickets are bought for a tour of 2 or 3 synagogues. Depending on the season you will tour a few of these: Scola Canton, Scola Italiana, Scola Spagnola, Scola Grande Tedesca, and Scola Levantina.



German synagogue: Five arches represent the five books of Torah

 The Synagogue Scola Italiana (1575) has an ornate bima and is surrounded by Corinthian marble columns. It probably is the most austere of all the synagogues in Venice. It was considered to be the "unlucky" synagogue because of the fires that took place in 1970 and 1980. Originally the ceiling was blue with stars, but after the fire it was painted white.  Centuries ago panels opened so that congregants could secretly go back through the corridors to worship without the government knowing.

Artists were brought in to refurbish the Scola Levantina (1541) in the 17th century. Because of Christian influences, there appears to be a structure that looks like an alter.  The richness in decoration and materials like marble and cherrywood are sumptuous.  Lamps are from the 18th century and red silk drapes cover large windows.  This synagogue is still used during Shabbat and is often open in the winter because it is one of the warmer places of worship.

While I was waiting for the tour to begin, I walked around the courtyard and viewed the memorial to the Holocaust. I was emotionally drained within seconds of viewing the austere display covering a large brick wall with a barbed wire fence looming above.

I remained in the courtyard sitting on an old wooden bench trying to compose myself.  The memorial was heartwrenching.

Eventually I went into the museum and viewed old Jewish Torahs and ornaments from the 1500's. Within minutes a group of tourists filled the cramped space and  a woman tapped me on the shoulder. “Where are you from?” she whispered.

"The States."

She raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Tucson.”

The husband  glanced over his bi-focals.  “You live in a dangerous city.  Guns and shootings,” he said with a thick Spanish accent.

I knew he was referring to the horrible event that took place back in January of this year when Gabby Giffords and others were shot or killed.

What could I say?  I was speechless for a moment. “Violence is in every city.  Tucson is actually a tranquil little town.  A shtetl of sorts, if you know what I mean.” 

“Vu den,”(of course)  he answered in Yiddish with a wink.

I smiled. 

“I insisted that we come,” the wife said.  “Although I’m not Jewish,  I wanted to learn more about my husband’s culture.  We met when he was a medical student in Mexico. I fell in love with him instantly and his faith…and well, here we are.”

After the tour, I found GAM GAM, a darling Kosher café facing a narrow canal with a bridge sporting a scrolled wrought iron railing. I dined al fresco and had the most delicious salmon with couscous smothered in a tasty spicy sauce.  Heavenly.  If it weren’t for the canal, I would swear I was in Israel, especially with the high temperature and Middle Eastern fare.

By night fall, I strolled into the Piazza San Marco, ignoring both the large advertisements and annoying  vendors and was seated  in front of a Jazz orchestra. 

Sipping an Amaretto, I exhaled slowly and was tapped on the shoulder by Mr. TDH.  He was on a corporate vacation. 

"So we meet again," he said, flashing me a charismatic smile.



Good to be the Doge!

Crossing the canal to get to the Doge Palace is fun because for only one dollar you can take a traghetto-an express gondola- that simply takes you back and forth from one side to the other. During the summer months when the heat is oppressive, a savvy traveler knows not to expend excessive energy walking and to utilize a traghetto, taxi or subway depending on the city, rather than touring on foot.  This is a fairly new concept for me.  It sounds like common sense much like the way we think about Velcro or Post-It notes-They simply make sense.  But, in the past I always vacationed like I was on monster steroids.  Talk about a power vacation. By the time I’d come home, I really needed a vacation.  I was exhausted.  And that was a good thing.  I didn't have a bucket list for the city because I inhaled and consumed all of it.  But to be in Italy during high heat and still keep the pace is insane…even for me.

Fortunately, the evenings are mild and lovely.  As the sun sets, the heat of the day subsides and people walk around with more exuberance.  Restaurant greeters are playful and gregarious, trying to entice tourists to dine at their cafés.  It’s a leisurely time to sit back, talk about the sites that were enjoyed during the day and sip a Pino Grigio as you plan the next day’s outing.

Some people are spontaneous and don’t like structure.  I always have an elaborate plan, more of an extensive laundry list really, but I’m spontaneous enough to change course midstream  if something more interesting comes along.  During peak months, it's helpful to buy tickets to popular sites ahead of time to avoid wasting time standing in line, but by doing so, you risk the serendipitous moments that always occur if you would just stop and look past your travel guide or camera lens.

OFF TO THE DOGE PALACE

All I can say is:  It's Good to be the Doge!  I wouldn't mind having digs like that.  Although, not the jail cell...I was already staying in the piccolo jail-sized hotel...but a palace...oh, yeah baby!  That's more my speed.  Except, of course with central air conditioning.  Sweating is oh-so unattractive.

Initially, the Doge Palace was considered to be more of a castle than a palace with its fortified towers, defenses and surrounding canals...not an easy building to siege back in the day. 

Over the centuries, the Palace functioned as the residence for the Doge, his family and security guards; offices of the government, administrative offices and site where court sentences were passed for criminals. The interior was elaborately decorated from marble floor to gilded ceilings encasing magnificent artwork.

Ceiling detail of the allegory of the League of Cambrais in the Sala del Senato

Through the years, many natural disasters like earthquakes, lightening and uprisings occurred. The formidable complex had to change and adapt.  Fires destroyed various rooms as well as works by Bellini, Carapaccio, Veronese and Tintoretto. Eventually the building was restored and long story short-the style is considered to be flamboyant Gothic.  It truly is beautiful with its exterior decorative arches culminating with the detailing on the roof, which reminds me of  the intricate scalloped  lace work you find on Burano Island.

As I visit this magnificent landmark, I am captivated by the works of Tintoretto, Veronese and Carpaccio which flood the building from floor to golden over-the-top hand carved ceilings.  Visual eye-candy.



Discovery of Arianne by Tintoretto



Rape of Europa by Veronese



The Lion of San Marco by Carpaccio



The Sala del Senato with the intricate ceiling enveloping masterpieces and the Great Council Chamber are two of my favorite rooms.

Sala del Senato

By contrast, the corridor leading to the prison is narrow and dark.  The rooms, austere and confining.  I can only imagine how the prisoners must have felt.

Once outside, I looked for the Bridge of Sighs-another photo opportunity,  but it was missing.  How could it be missing?  On second glance, I realized, I was looking at it…or what was it, but the bridge was completely surrounded by advertisements, almost hiding the famous landmark.  

People have spoken of this well known monument with reflective sadness because it was here that  prisoners would cross it to go either to court or return to the prison cell while stealing one last look at the magnificent view of Venice from the small windows - A harsh reminder that they would no longer have freedom or a life in this magical city.  I can't help but sigh when I look at the present day Bridge because this is how I remember it:

Under the Venetian Sky

I love traveling. Absolutely love it.  To be able to walk the path where Julius Caesar and Cleopatra strolled, eat in restaurants dating back to the 1400’s with stunning vaulted ceilings and waltz the night away in the Hofburg Palace in the same room where Empress Sisi and Emperor Frans Josef danced as Strauss played all night long in Vienna,  invigorates me. And astonishes me at the same time. Traveling teaches me so much about the history of the world, politics, music and art. 

So, although the trip to Venice had a rocky start, it didn’t stop me from having the time of my life.  Aside from the loud bursts of oversized advertisements and Vendors-Gone-Crazy, the mere beauty of Venice is everywhere. And I can't wait to begin exploring this enchanting city.

View from the balcony of the Guggenheim Museum

To understand Venetian life and the development of Venetian painting from the 14^th-18^th century, I head over to Galleria dell'Accademia. Rooms have panoramic views of Venetian painting in theByzantine style that transcend me back in time. 


Miracles of the Holy Cross by Gentile Bellini



Vittore Carpaccio: the Healing of a Lunatic

The Miracles of the Holy Cross by Gentile Bellini and Vittore Carpaccio's Healing of a Lunatic were magnificent artistic statements, giving me a bird's eye view of what life was like centuries ago.  When I finally finished touring the Accademia and stepped out in the golden light of Venice, for a moment, I was dazed and felt like I was part of a different era.

After a quick snack, I went to The Guggenheim Museum. 

The Guggenheim collection is housed in the Pallazo Veir dei Leoni on the Grand Canal.  The stunning building was designed by Lorenzo Boschetti and has a lovely inner garden courtyard and balcony.

The art collection is spectacular and is probably the most important Italian collection of contemporary art.  Although I am drawn to the Impressionists, my taste in art is rather eclectic.  I'm enthralled with the entire collection of art from the various movements:  Cubism, Futurism, Abstract Art, Dadaism (Art is dead movement) and Surrealism.  Collections of Picasso, Duchamp, Kandinsky, Chagall, Magritte, Giorgio de Chirico, Max Ernst, Joan Miro, Paul Klee, and Mondrian feel like old pals that I've come back to visit.  And of course admire.

Having recently viewed Woody Allen’s, Midnight in Paris I can’t help but imagine how wonderful it would have been to have known some of these artists and to hear them discuss their work, exchanging  ideas and bantering about politics, art and love.

The balcony faces the canal and I’m picturing myself sipping Prosecco with friends each evening as the sun goes down. At this point I can only hope to make new acquaintances who have villas like this in fabulous parts of Europe so that I can live out my effervescent fantasies.



You Win Some~You Lose Some

Some vacations are so picture perfect, they’re like a postcard-life imitating art in a snapshot.  Other vacations, are not.  It all depends upon who’s telling the story…and what they’re omitting.

Much like on FaceBook, you see fantastic photographs of someone’s special occasion and read the hype and think, Oh!  Why can’t I do that?  Why didn’t I think to do that?  You experience a little bit of the green-eyed monster looking at a snapshot online at their picture perfect world and hearing about their wonderful vacation.  It’s a moment in time that tells a story, although an incomplete one. 

If you’re lucky, sometime later little tidbits are shared here and there and finally the truth is revealed:  their luggage was lost for a week; when it was returned, half the contents were missing; the suitcase was ripped to shreds and the wheels were broken, making it difficult to schlep all over Europe.  Naturally all the fights and bad meals are excluded from the story when they first described their wonderful vacation, unless the couple had a couple of cocktails and you finally hear the truth…nothing but the truth, including an extra trip to buy duck-tape for the poor suitcase.  So much for having a wonderful vacation.

If you’re real, you tell the truth.  Usually it’s the hardships that make a story more interesting. 

So when I finally arrived in Venice, I expected my hotel and room to be as luxurious as all the others I had stayed in, except during my college years when I stayed in hostels when I traveled in Europe.  There’s a reason why they’re called hostels---they make you feel hostile dwelling in old, cramped rooms with communal bathrooms and zero amenities, including lack of air conditioning.   Having stayed in 3, 4 and 5 Star hotels over the years, it didn’t take me long to realize that lots of stars equal lots of pleasure.

After researching numerous hotels online, I selected a four star hotel.  The difference in price was significantly lower than my desired five star resort and since the exchange rate was the highest it has been at 1.55, it seemed worthwhile to downgrade one star.  After all, what’s one star less? Four is pretty good, right?

As it turns out, a friend was vacationing in Europe and her high-end travel agent recommended a different four star hotel.  After inspecting the website’s gorgeous photographs of the bedrooms, suites and common area-it was a no brainer.  This hidden Venetian jewel looked great. Certainly better than the one I had originally selected.  Of course my mother burst my bubble when I showed her the pictures online.

“Their website is their advertisement.  Do you really think they’d post the ugly rooms?”

Well, if Father Knows Best my mother was a cock-eyed genius. 





The room literally had two feet of space on each side of the bed.  The tiny armoire flaunting one lonely hanger was next to the bathroom so neither the armoire or bathroom door could be opened simultaneously.  Since there wasn’t any room to put a suitcase, I stood mine up next to the wall and the bed, leaving just enough room for me to stub my toes every morning as I tried to squeeze past my overstuffed luggage.

The shower was two feet by two feet.  If you were anything but anorexic you couldn’t fit.  Shaving your legs?  Not an option in the glass enclosed thimble.  My accommodations were so small---there wasn’t enough room to change your mind.

So…is there a difference between a four and five star hotel?  In this case, the hotel was not a true four star hotel.  Their website duped me and all of the other gullible tourists who reserved rooms on their property.  At best it was a 1.5 star hotel and only because it had an elevator-which was also the size of a peanut, barely fitting a person and a suitcase.

Sleep was impossible.  I don’t know if it’s a coincidence or not, but the Italians seem to love all things al dente-from pasta to the back-breaking, cement-like, golf ball lumpy, hard bed.  Tossing from side to side trying to find an inch of softness, I giggled at the irony of my situation. Having spent the morning touring the Doge palace and the prison next to it, I realized that my room was molto piccolo-so much smaller than the jail cells next to the palace.  And for a four star hotel ~there wasn’t even enough room in the bed for me to toss and turn and certainly not enough room in the room to sneeze without wrenching my back.

Although I can look past the thorns and see the rose, I love being surrounded by beauty whether it’s art or my accommodations. Just like dining in a nice restaurant, seeing a Monet painting or attending a concert adds to a trip, so does staying in a lovely hotel.

Some people would argue that the room is only used to sleep and shower-so why spend extra money on a room instead of on nice meals, museums and concerts during the vacation?

I understand the philosophy especially if you’ve never stayed in an upscale resort. Maybe those people should just go camping and sleep under the stars, letting the coyotes serenade them in the evening. 

As for me…bring on those five stars!

Venice Held Hostage

I have another confession to make. I absolutely love romance. Just the thought of it makes me flush, but I don't consider myself a hopeless romantic.  That sounds so...hopeless. Rather, I’m a hopeful romantic, so the thought of being back in Venice after the tall, dark handsome man put a smile on my face so long ago, made me excited.  Giddy.  Imagining Bellini’s at sundown in the Piazza San Marco made me wish the water taxi from the airport would speed up the ride and take me to the Piazza immediately where I would people watch, day dream and have a cool cocktail before checking into my hotel.

Those who have been to Venice sigh upon hearing the enchanted name.  We get a certain look-a gleam in the eye.  Unspoken words that need no explaining.  Venezia.  Ahhhhh…. I feel a smile form on my face. I’ve come home.

When I love someone body and soul, I feel protective.  I build a proverbial wall of defense around h/her to make sure no one hurts or destroys my beloved. I become insulted, indignant and wounded if someone says or does anything untoward to a friend or family member.

So imagine my anguish when I returned to Venice and saw the desecration of my city. My special place where all things magical can and did happen.

When I breezed into the Piazza San Marco with Andrea Bocelli’s tenor voice singing in my head and flashbacks of my trip from so long ago in front of my eyes, I was shocked and disappointed.  Plastered on old buildings were enormous advertisements. The desecration of my city.  My Venezia.  My Jewel - HELD HOSTAGE!

Like a stab to the heart, every time I walked through the Piazza or took a vaparetto down the canal, these advertisements blatantly glared at me, screamed at me-trying to woo me with their products and to their stores.  Venice turned into Times Square. 

During my visit, I spoke with some of the locals.  They told me that the Venetians are leaving Venice in droves because it is too expensive to live there, taxes are 20% and there isn’t any commerce except tourism to keep them afloat. On Murano Island, the locals complained that the Asians have inexpensively duplicated their one-of-a-kind hand-blown art and are selling the copies in Venice, driving tourists away from their Island with cheap imitations.

While advertising and tourism helps their economy, there needs to be a balance so that the magic of Venice doesn’t sink and become a playground for tourists, like Disneyland.

Venice has changed and like a lover, I must accept a few flaws and focus on the city’s enchanting attributes.  I must admit, it was hard not to judge the book by its cover.  Vinyl advertisements bombarded the lovely city during the day and at night pushcart salesmen took over the square which was designed as a way for people to stroll, relax and perhaps fall in love. The Piazza was overcome with salespeople selling T-shirts, pens, mugs, key chains from their store on wheels. Obnoxious peddlers threw glowing orbs thirty feet up in the sky, only to have them fall on the heads of tourists and their unsuspecting children. Bad enough to have one sales guy do this, but he had a posse. You had to constantly watch the sky to make sure you weren’t hit in the head with the flying object, instead of just enjoying the lovely view and live music surrounding the perimeter.

Although Venice has changed, in my heart I will always view Venice through the eyes of a hopeful romantic.

On the Road Again~or better yet~Canal

Venezia…when I hear that word, that beautiful word, I have a Pavlovian type reaction, minus salivating over food when a bell rings, of course. 

Instead, I experience a kaleidoscope of emotion-all in vivid color.  My body flushes as the word Venezia resonates in my ears. It’s as though Venice is my lover, coming to whisk me away to love me deeply and forever. 

You can imagine how thrilled I was at the thought of returning to Venice.  I couldn't sleep for days and felt like a child the night before Christmas or in my case, Chanukah. The anticipation was killing me.  Unfortunately being a world-class insomniac prevents sleep, but combine that with something as wonderful as a trip to Italy: fuggedaboutit!  Moses may have parted the Red Sea with a little help from the Man-Up-Stairs, but not even that mighty duo could make me slumber. Not happening.  Plus, I couldn't imagine the logistics of getting from the airport to the magnificent Piazza San Marco, especially saddled down with 60 pounds of luggage and a heavy tote bag.  Talk about sink or swim!

As the plane descends, I am warmed by the thought of Venice and by the romance of the city. Something in me has awakened.  I’m reborn again just knowing that I will be back in Venice, replacing old memories with new ones on this current trip. Racing down to baggage claim, I buy a ticket for the water taxi and hurry to the water's edge to board the vaporetto.

Through sleep-starved eyes, the beauty of Venice surrounds the airport and with each step I take walking to the water taxi~like gulping a cup of Espresso and getting a jolt of caffeine in my system~I suddenly don’t feel sleep deprivation or jet lag.  I’m with my lover again.  In less than two hours, I approach the Grand Canal, ready to  be reunited with the city that brought me back to life so many years ago when I was on my honeymoon.  Alone.



Confessions From a Technologically Challenged Girl

I have an embarrassing confession.  I feel like I’m in an AA meeting, finally exposing my dirty little secret.  Here goes:  I had dial-up until recently.  I can hear the “ooh and ahhs” and the sarcastic: “Reallys?” Who in their right mind would sit at a computer for half hour while it cranks up, boots, reboots, gargles, goigles and is just plain slow as molasses?

There is no defense.  I have no defense. What can I say? So, now that you’ve gotten used to that confession…realize that with only dial-up, I didn’t have cable, either.  You try living without cable for as long as I have and you’ll realize what a patient girl I am, albeit crazy. 

Imagine how much sooner I would have learned to cook if only I had cable.  I am now addicted to the cooking channels which I might add, is where Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome began his prowess…in the kitchen, that is.  (For future reference he will be called:  Mr. TDH)

Finally, I acquiesced and joined the 21^st century and on one frenzied day, I bought a gigantic flatscreen TV (Yes, I had and still have the stone-age televisions with the plastic triangle feature in the back~talk about humble pie!); I threw out the converter box and rabbit ear antennaes---Remember those? They always reminded me of the old sit-com: My Favorite Martian.  I called the cable company and not only signed up for cable for the telephone, computer, and television…but also had wi-fi installed.

My head was spinning with all of these great changes and my heart raced with an adrenaline high by evening’s end when everything was installed and up and running.

Who could sleep when I could surf over two thousand channels?  Carpal tunnel syndrome was in my future with all the flipping of the stations. So although I may have gotten off to a slow start, within twenty-four hours, I was Technology Central.  I still haven’t figured out all the buttons on the cable remote control or why I have two thousand channels and nothing to watch…but that’s another story. 

And then, I discovered Create TV

I fell madly in love with Lidia’s Italy featuring: Lidia Bastianich, who ~if you’re reading my blog…I should be so lucky~ had better invite me for dinner.  I’m waiting, Lidia.  I’M WAITING!  But, no…she just teases me at the end of each show saying: “Tutti a Tavola a Mangiare.  When, Lidia?  When?

And then of course, the gregarious Spaniard Jose’ Andre’s--- has a wonderful cooking show: Made in Spain.  While I love, love, love Italian men, I do have a thing for Spanish men-especially after I lived in Spain one summer, taking classes and going on excursions with other students.

The great part about his show, just like Lidia’s, is that besides cooking, he travels to different parts of Spain, taking the viewer along on the trip (she of course- to different regions in Italy) and I reminisce and have wonderful flashbacks about the cities I visited long ago while I learn how to cook authentic Spanish and Italian dishes from the locals themselves.

My first teenage crush was with Fernando, Segovia’s Flamenco guitarist, whose gypsy eyes penetrated mine one night. As he played the Flamenco guitar one evening in a small tavern, his dark, wavy long hair brushed against his unshaven face: left, right, left as his solo began to crescendo and accelerate in speed and intensity.  I was hooked.

As a result, I learned to make a mean PAELLA and TORTILLA ESPAÑOLA and think fondly of my days back in Segovia when I’m adding a little saffron to my rice. The aroma of a time long ago fills my senses and I am a nineteen year old girl whose heart thundered when she watched Fernando play the guitar.

 It’s funny how a little romance throughout my life turned me into a determined and fine chef.  The things that happen when you’re in love.

Savoring La Dolce Vita

Shortly after I returned to the States after being in Venice on my honeymoon alone, the doorbell rang. It was him!  The gorgeous gentleman who bought me flowers in Venice.  In his arms were dozens of roses and a skillet.  And, he didn’t even know about my culinary reputation as of yet.  He just wanted to reunite with me and steam things up in the kitchen.

I was speechless.  Who spontaneously arrives with flowers and cooking utensils?  A girl needs time to primp and prepare and I had all of a nano-second to run my fingers through my wavy hair and bat my mascara laden lashes at him.  Him!  He was here. We hugged and looked at each other for the longest time.  I couldn’t believe how romantic he was, and we weren’t even in Italy where romance probably evolved.  Romance in Tucson?  Things like this only happen in the movies.

I looked at the skillet and then at him.  “You want to cook?”

 “I’d like to heat things up a little,” he chuckled.

“You sure know how to sweep a girl off her feet.”

He took me in his arms and kissed me tenderly.  His strong embrace and kiss made my legs limp, like a slinky. 

He pulled back and smiled.  “Okay, where is the kitchen.  No more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for you!”

He followed me as I deliberately sashayed to the kitchen. Walking is for nuns. Sashaying is for girls who wear red dresses. If I had more notice, I would have blasted through my crowded closet in search of that dress…but alas, with no notice, jeans and a T-shirt would have to be the provocative clothing du jour.

“Do you have spaghetti?”

I gave him the look.  “Of course!”

“Fresh jumbo shrimp?”

“How’s frozen bay shrimp?”

He groaned.

Wrong answer, I thought.  Figures.  I’d have to take after my father who didn’t know you needed to boil spaghetti in order to cook it.  I still don’t understand his logic.  Like what could you do with hard noodles besides break a tooth?  That really takes al dente to a whole new level.

“What’s wrong with frozen shrimp?”

“If I have to explain this to you, you’ll just never get it!”

Good thing he was tall, dark and handsome…and kidding…sort of.

“Okay, I hope you have garlic, olive oil, onions, fresh basil and tomatoes.”

I looked in the pantry and refrigerator and nodded. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I only had dried basil.  But, basil is basil, right?  What’s the difference?

“White wine?”

I showed him my extensive list of one.

He wrinkled his nose at the brand.  “I guess this will have to do.  Oh!  Do you have fresh Parmigiano Reggiano?”

“Does it count if it’s from Costco and it’s already grated?”

I can still hear his laughter in my ears.  I guess that was a no. What can I say?  I was a novice, but willing to learn and if combining romance with Italian food was what I had to do…I was willing to make that sacrifice.

He walked me through all the steps of dicing, chopping, sautéing, and making fresh pasta sauce for my anemic and anorexic bay shrimp.

Who knew Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome could cook?  He sure heated up my kitchen that night and for many more months to come.

Something was cooking in the kitchen—-and it certainly wasn’t shrimp and pasta!