Other
Flamenco
Flamenco is included in Pastel & Pen: Travels in Europe, a non-collaborative collaboration between Gregg Simpson and me. Gregg supplies the artwork (see above), and I write the stories.
About the artwork: Gregg became captivated by flamenco during a trip to Spain in 2010 when we watched flamenco performances in Barcelona, Cordoba, and finally, Seville. He created Flamenco Sketches on the rooftop of our tiny hotel on a dark side street in the center of Seville, the massive cathedral looming nearby.
Flamenco
In a dark theater packed with tourists just like us, we sit clutching the one glass of watered-down Sangria included in the ticket price to the Los Gallos flamenco show.
I worry that the show will not be authentic enough, that we’ll be treated to a weary troupe of over-the-hill dancers too washed up to manage more than a few half-hearted stamps and turns.
I am wrong. Very wrong.
For almost two hours, three male singers, one female singer, three guitarists, three female dancers, and two male dancers grab our throats and squeeze with a relentless fury that leaves us gasping for more.
An angelic-looking young guitarist sits alone at center stage and presents a solo performance that puts the “oo” in “swoon.”
He does things with ten fingers that no human should be capable of. I can barely manage right- and left-hand independence at a slow tempo on the piano. He has ten-finger independence. Each finger plays a different pattern and a different rhythm simultaneously and at blinding speed.
The solo dancers start slow and then build intensity with the pace and intricacy of their footwork. By the time they reach the climax, my heart rate is through the roof, and I am yelling olé like a native.
The male dancer dances with no music—a drum solo with feet that punish the floor with machine-gun precision.
The third female dancer, well into her fifties, is as strong and soulful as the dirt of Seville. She exudes experience with a concerto of jerky, violent movements that leaves no doubt about who is queen of the troupe.
The singers inspire the dancers who inspire the guitarists who in turn intently watch and react to the footwork of the dancers.
At the finale, each dancer takes a turn improvising, and the audience is finally allowed to take pictures. With cameras flashing and heels hammering, hands clapping, and voices cheering, the tiny theater explodes.
Afterwards, we float into the soft evening air—as devout a pair of converts as ever walked through the doors of Seville’s gold-encrusted cathedral.
Bella Roma Rip-off
Bella Roma Rip-off is included in Pastel & Pen: Travels in Europe, a non-collaborative collaboration between Gregg Simpson and me. Gregg supplies the artwork (see above), and I write the stories.
About the artwork: Gregg created Birthday in Rome in honor of his 70th birthday, which we celebrated a few weeks before stumbling upon the Bella Roma Rip-off. The party atmosphere conjured by the piece reminded me of how we felt before we got the bill at the swanky place overlooking the Piazza del Popolo.
Bella Roma Rip-off
During a recent week-long stay in Rome, Gregg and I try twice to see the Etruscan Museum in Rome. When finally we are successful, we are overwhelmed with pre-Roman bliss.
The place is deserted except for a few tired-looking attendants, but the exhibits! Holy Early Civilization! We are entranced as we stroll from case to case to gaze at the Greek-influenced pottery and household goods that include an amazing selection of women’s mirrors.
I feel a stirring of inspiration—could I consider writing a novel set in Etruscan times? For one thing, women had a great deal more freedom in Etruscan society than they had in the Roman era. I buy a book about the Etruscans and file away ideas for possible revisiting.
After drinking our fill of Etruscans, we set out in search of dinner and stumble into one of the very few negative experiences we’ve had in all our years of travel.
A long walk through a neighborhood with no restaurants (a rare thing in Rome) brings us to the Piazza del Popolo. We’re hungry so, instead of stopping to do a quick Yelp search on my phone, we walk into a lovely restaurant right on the Piazza.
We arrive just as the heavens open—the rain like machine gun fire rattling the massive white canopies arching above the outdoor tables. The very professional and friendly waiter seats us immediately and cannot be more attentive, short of adopting us and taking us home to Mama.
Lulled into a false sense of security, I order a glass of wine without checking the wine menu. The nice waiter suggests a Chianti—I say, why not?
The Chianti is spectacular, and the food we order is good, although a bit on the skimpy side—one shared salad and one plate of shared risotto plus one beer for Gregg and two glasses of the Chianti for me. In my defense, the glasses are huge, and the quantity of Chianti is small—and it tastes really good. The waiter continues to be friendly and joking.
Where are you from? Ah, Canadese, I have relatives in Toronto. Do you know them?
And then, with a flourish, he presents the bill.
I’d estimated maybe €50, since I know the salad and risotto together are about €25. I also know there will be a service charge (the posh restaurants always have one), and the Chianti is a wild card that I figure will cost about €8 a glass (high for me, but it really was good).
The bill is €111.
We’ve been scammed! I look at the itemized bill — €20 per glass for the Chianti and another €17 for the cover charge (more than either one of the dishes we ate).
Ouch! Well, what’s a nice Canadian girl to do? I pay up quickly and then go to our HomeAway apartment rental and write three scathing reviews on Yelp, TripAdvisor, and Google. I then discover that I’m not alone. The average star rating for the restaurant is two, with a many one-star ratings that all say the same thing—scam alert.
Live and learn. We pride ourselves on being smart travelers, but pride goeth before a fall. I will be more careful to check reviews in future.
Siena Explosion
Siena Explosion is included in Pastel & Pen: Travels in Europe, a non-collaborative collaboration between Gregg Simpson and me. Gregg supplies the artwork (see above), and I write the stories.
About the artwork: Inspired by the vineyards and olive groves around San Gimignano, Gregg completed Toscana just before we went to Siena and he almost blew himself up. To me, the piece looks like bits of landscape flying into space, which is a fitting image for my story, as you’ll see!
Siena Explosion
We emerge from a stifling, dark side street into blinding October sunlight that bounces off thousands of pink and white bricks in Siena’s Il Campo, one of the most entrancing piazzas in all of Italy, which is saying something. I am so overwhelmed that I walk right into the middle of the Campo and flop down onto the bricks. They are shiny and smooth after seven centuries of buffing by feet and hooves.
Our first connection with Siena comes on the heels of a near-death experience.
Back up 48 hours and we are driving deep into the hills outside Siena along charmingly bendy, tree-shaded roads lined with villas and affording occasional glimpses of the dazzling Tuscan landscape. Jazz plays quietly on the car stereo. We are heading to an AirBnB for three nights of Tuscan bliss—writing, drawing, walks past ripening vines, simple meals eaten al fresco.
Our host—I’ll call her Maria—has provided us with descriptive directions but no house number. We drive up and down a long road, our cheerful anticipation of the coming Tuscan experience rapidly dissolving into frustration.
Finally, I email Maria—texting being unknown to me at the time—and she miraculously emails back.
We are lost!
Where are you?
Lost.
We connect by phone, she patiently repeats the directions, and finally tells us the house number. We drive back up the same road we’ve just come down. Nothing. Another call.
She is getting impatient with the stupid Canadians, and I’m feeling a little less than charitable with her. Finally, she comes out to the road and flags us down. It turns out that the house number is visible only to cars coming from one direction but not the other. I point out, nicely, that perhaps she might mention that to her guests. She shrugs. We are only the second people to stay at her place. The first guests were French, she tells us, and evidently had a more finely tuned sense of direction.
The small apartment is a bit dank with a lot of mildew crusting the outdoor umbrella, but the view from the bedroom window is spectacular and we are tired.
A night spent under a bedspread that is damp and musty-smelling is a minor inconvenience. We have a small kitchen and, after a few weeks of traveling, are happy to stay put and make our own meals.
The kitchen is equipped with a gas cooker jammed next to a tiny fridge jammed next to a sink with no counter above a tiny dishwasher that doesn’t work. It’s quaint and we make do.
A sheet of glass covers the gas cooker. As I light the burner, I marvel at the ingenuity of humanity. I’ve never seen a glass-topped stove before, but what a novel idea! The flames lick the underside of the glass, and the water takes forever to boil, so I just keep turning up the gas.
We decide to stay in all day, postponing a sightseeing foray into Siena till the next morning. At lunch, I make grilled cheese sandwiches in a frying pan on the glass-topped stove. I’m impressed with how the glass prevents spills from reaching the flames.
Traveling is so enlightening.
In the afternoon, Gregg puts a pot of water on the stove to boil for coffee. I leave him to it and go upstairs to write at a small table I’ve set up to overlook the view.
Several minutes later, a tremendous cracking sound followed by a yell of terror rocks the villa.
What on Earth? I run downstairs to find Gregg standing knee-deep in shattered glass, his eyes wide with horror, a bloody gouge out of his left ear lobe, slivers of glass embedded in one thumb. I’ve never seen him look so shocked.
My first thought? The stove must be defective. After sweeping up the piles of shattered glass, I actually check the brand of the stove and look it up on the Internet. There are reviews stating that yes, indeed, that brand is prone to blow-ups.
Feeling very grateful that Gregg is not badly hurt, I fire an email off to Maria to let her know what’s happened.
Hi Maria
We’ve had an accident with the stove. The glass top shattered. Gregg was making coffee and had just one burner on. We are not familiar with gas and so we don’t know if there was something we were supposed to do, although it seems odd that the glass would shatter just making coffee. Were we supposed to remove the glass top?
Our Siena experience quickly deteriorates into a series of increasingly inharmonious emails between Maria and us.
She thinks we are idiots for not removing the glass before lighting the gas and demands we pay her €350. We point out that she never told us to remove the glass. She rebuts by pointing out that removing the glass is obvious. How can anyone be that stupid?
Apparently, we can.
Maria acknowledges a modicum of blame and asks for €250. I offer €100. Back and forth go the emails until finally we give up and lay the case before AirBnB.
The upshot is that all costs are paid by AirBnB, and we leave a day early to recover our Tuscan tranquility—and sense of humor—in a different location.
When I tell this story to North Americans, they are all breathless with horrified sympathy. When I mention it to Europeans, they look at me like I’m insane.
Travel is so enlightening.