(Tuscany, Italy)…The road, the Via Empolese in Cerbaia, that goes alongside the sublime Villa il Poggiale near the small village of San Casciano Val di Pesa seems always to be busy, a small mystery to me, but a step off it onto one of the side roads leads to a nether world (see photo) of olive fields, vineyards, sun-kissed Tuscan farmhouses, narrowing lanes and grassy driveways marshaled by Black redstarts. In November, the smell of olives perfumes the air, and half-hidden men armed with long poles and large blankets move along groves and, their modus operandi escaping me, select trees from which to strip off fruit. The next day I visited the Fattoria di Maiano (www.fattoriadimaiano.com/en) to see where some of these olives end up. On the other side of Florence, just south of Fiesole, the Miari Fulcis family, made counts and countesses (the current head is a countess, Contessa Lucrezia Miari Fulcis dei Principi Corsini) centuries ago, run this fattoria. It’s the largest farm in the area, and produces the delicious Laudemio olive oil (other oil manufacturers also market their wares with this name, as a collective; www.laudemio.it). Their house—well, mansion—possesses a columned courtyard, a terrace overlooking mazelike topiary, a church, Spinello Aretino’s fresco, La Madonna della Misericordia, and an olive press, called a frantoio in Italian. A tap gushed oil, and you are welcome to dip a finger in the flow. Parts of the movie adaptation of E.M. Forster’s novel A Room with a View were filmed in the main dining room.
One of the countess’ relatives was Lorenzo Corsini, who became Pope Clement XII in 1730. He was responsible for the façade of San Giovanni in Laterano, which is Rome’s cathedral (St. Peter’s is the Vatican’s), and the construction of the Trevi Fountain. Two Benedicts, XIII and XIV, bookended his papacy (I loved writing this sentence). Another relative was St. Andrew Corsini, who died in 1374, was Bishop of Fiesole and once floated over the field of the 1440 battle of Anghiari, which is the subject of the “Lost Leonardo,” a painting by Leonardo da Vinci that has, obviously, disappeared. Some believe it is “hiding” beneath a Giorgio Vasari painting, which, if true, will itself become “lost.” In San Giovanni in Laterano, there is a chapel built in St. Andrew's honour by Clement XII, which obviously was not a coincidence.
Back at the ochre-yellow Villa il Pogialle (www.villailpoggiale.it), I marvelled at never finding my way from my room—Room 1—to anywhere I wanted to go. It was fantastic to get slightly lost and discover new sitting rooms, the kitchen, the back door, the side terrace, etc. It, too, had a sense of mystery about it, which was added to by it being administered by a diminutive Scottish woman from Selkirk.
The road to Florence passes by the village of Pozzolatico and the basilica of San Miniato al Monte (St. Minias on the Mountain), which gives one of the best views of Florence’s Duomo and Campanile. St. Minias was a survivor. The Roman Emperor Trajan Decius disliked him and threw him to the lions, which refused to eat him, so the pontifex maximus decided to take things into his own hands and have the man beheaded. Even this did not stop Minias, who coolly picked up his head and walked up the hill to where his church now stands. He should use such immortal skills to clear the “entertainers” away from another scenic overview of Florence, along the same road, which include an utterly incongruous Chilean pipe band and two Native American dancing “shamans” selling Kachina dolls. Perhaps this is just our new global world, for wandering up the slope, on the auspicious date of 11/11/11 (Nov. 11, 2011) was a newly married Chinese couple surrounded by Chinese friends. The church has some ornate interior decoration, which extends between small details of knights wearing conically shaped helmets while attacking dragons to large frescos completed by Aretino. The exterior stairs leading to the basilica also are dramatic and reminded me slightly (although these stairs lead straight up) of those at Bom Jesus do Monte in Braga, Portugal—probably just because both were coloured white, either of whitewash or Carrera marble.
Back to Pozzolatico, we took the vegetables we had purchased in Florence’s San Ambroglio market and started to prepare lunch at the expansive I Tre Pini (www.ristoranteitrepini.it) restaurant, which is owned by the marvellous named Libero Saraceni (“Free Saracen”). I was in charge of the tomato tapenade soup, and I also helped make ravioli. All of this was possible because I had the great fortune of being on a trip organised by Trafalgar Tours (www.trafalgar.com/usa/bemyguest) on, specifically, its Be My Guest progam, which opens usually closed doors and permits travellers to utterly savour the tastes and notions of a region’s life. Normally, I avoid group tours, but I was so busy, laughing and learning on this trip, none of the usual group tat—monotone guide voices, instantly forgotten facts, half-stabs at visiting anywhere, etc.—was able to seep in. And joy of joys, while we cooked, there was red wine and fried courgette flowers to sip and munch on.
Stomach filled, I investigate Florence. The exterior of the Duomo is quite beautiful, as are the Gates of Paradise on the Battistero di San Giovanni, which is where Dante was baptized. It is a short walk to the Ponte Vecchio, but I’d rather look at that bridge from the adjacent Ponte Santa Trìnita, which was destroyed by the Nazis in Aug. 1944, and see the Vecchio’s colours and shapes reflected in the River Arno, rather than the reflections in the tacky gold on display in its tacky gold shops. Vasari, as well as painting, also built the Vasari Corridor, which connects the Ponte Vecchio with the Uffizi Palace in Florence—just another of the connections that make history and modern life here fascinating and palpable.
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(Provence, France)…The TGV train (www.tgv.com) from Paris’ Gare de Lyon station speeds down to Avignon, the main town of the Provence region, at a fairly stunning 180 mph. In Great Britain, my country, I imagine this would be accompanied by destroyed towns, grandiose claims that actually were 20-mile rail tailbacks and forced slow downs caused by town anti-noise committees, while in the United States, my home now, any notion of high-speed rail is met with the same suspicion as if the proposal was to open Communist Party offices in every major city.
The nose-coned train pulled out of the station three seconds late by my watch, which probably was three seconds too fast. The mist was heavy, which made a line of hunters and spot dogs creeping over a rutted field hunting for partridge in Fontainebleau all the more delightful.
Two hours later, the countryside changed dramatically and we headed over the western sections of Rhône-Alpes and onwards to Avignon, a dramatic city dominated by the Palace of the Popes, in which lived all the popes from 1305 to 1378; the city remained the property of the Vatican until 1791, two years after the fall of the Bastille. For another two years after 1378, it was home to the two Antipopes, Clement VII and Benedict XIII. It’s other major site is the ruined Pont d’Avignon, which sticks halfway across the Rhône River and also goes by the name of Pont Saint-Bénezet; to summit it costs an exorbitant €10 (I arrived there five minutes after the last ticket time, thus avoiding me having to ask myself if I would have been too miserly to pay).
Annoyingly, right below the Palace of the Popes was the Provençal Kenny G, tootling away when all tourists wanted was to marvel at the setting sun illuminating in orange the sandstone of the palace’s impressively high walls topped with a 23-foot-high Virgin Mary in gold; later on, Kenny G was replaced by a Beatle, equally droll, who played energetically to a flash mob of Japanese tourists who literally ran to the large main square, the Place du Palais, snapped away, ignored John/Paul/George or Ringo and disappeared.
If I had come here in high summer (it was mid-November), they might have been drowned out by the noise of cicadas. I heard none and saw only one, part of a stained-glass window along a dark street that my camera’s flash only just picked out. The cicada was made popular here by poet Frédéric Mistral, who decorated the covers of his books with them, above the motto—in Provençal—Lou souleu mi fa canta (“The sun makes me sing”).
Visit the Rocher des Doms gardens above the palace for wonderful views, and poke your nose along the narrow streets around the Place Carnot and Place de la Principale.
L’isle-sur-la-Sorgue is a classic Provençal town bordering the Sorgue River, which when I was there was almost overflowing its banks and was running at the fastest speeds anyone could remember. A terrific storm had devastated parts of France and Italy but thankfully preceded me, and all I saw was the damage; several people died, notably in the Italian Cinqueterre area. I ate at the excellent Le Jardin du Quai (www.danielhebet.com) and met the young but Michelin-starred Daniel Hébet, who showed me how to make macaroons. His restaurant is an oasis of peace in what is a pretty peaceful place anyway, famous for its antiques. It was also here where one of my childhood heroes (and I am no chef of note) Keith Floyd, the rakish TV presenter who progressively got more tipsy as his cooking programs went on, had a restaurant, probably just called Restaurant, like many of his others, in the late 1970s.
Aix-en-Provence is truly delightful. Head there. Wake up early in the morning and walk through its neat, attractive, revealing streets to the Place du Verdun and Pôle Judiciare for an Aladdin’s Cave of fresh produce. Very early, stall holders are more likely to hand out little pieces of food. One huge table contained at least 10 different species of my favourite food, mushrooms, and cheeses, sausages and vegetables are displayed so beautifully, it seems mean to actually buy any and spoil the arrangements. I did buy a handful of cumin-rubbed mini-sausages, which I forgot about until I got back to New York City. They were delicious. Another pretty square, sometimes with a market, is Place des Fontêtes, and the place to stay is the Grand Hôtel Roi René (www.accorhotels.com/gb/hotel-1169-grand-hotel-roi-rene-aix-en-provence-mgallery-collection/index.shtml) to the south of this compact city; I tried to find the café where Paul Cézanne and Emile Zola used to take their coffee, but I could not, and then ran out of time.
I did run out of town along the Cours des Arts et Métiers to the eastern fringes of town. A road called Chemin de Beauregard climbs uphill and past villas of increasing beauty, before narrowing. Asphalt led to cracked asphalt and then gravel and large stones, the hedge to either side closing in, too, and then brushing both shoulders. I thought I was lost but then saw two cars parked with their backs to me, so assumed a larger road lay close. It did, as did a weathered, wooden sign saying that La Tour César was a 20-minute walk. The roads here are sunken slightly, the birds tweet (November was suddenly very clement) and all is pleasing. The medieval Tower of César I can find few notes on, but it seems to guard the city’s eastern approaches at the beginning of the lofty Luberon Mountains, dominated by Mont Ventoux, which rises more than 6,000 feet, sees the Tour de France on occasion (the last grueling time in 2009) and was painted by Cézanne on numerous occasions. Cezanne also painted the Tour de César, from his perch on the Bibémus Plain, but his rendition shows it sitting on a bare hillside. Today all is trees, the path going straight up a ridge in the Luberon foothills, circling the tower and heading off to the left.
Another stop was the gorgeous Château la Dorgonne (www.chateauladorgonne.com), which I was told meant “house of the shepherd’s pie” in French. Part of the Côtes du Luberon appellation, between the Cavalon and Durnace rivers, this organic vineyard near the town of La Tour-d’Aigues produces a wonderful red, and I drank from a 2009 bottle. A Berber woman with small crosses tattooed on her chin (see photo above) and forehead raked leaves and told me that she had worked for the owners for 20 years, one of which looked very much like Prince William.
A perfect day ended after visiting the mountainside town of Gordes with a visit to Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, where the Sorgue river begins. I popped up to the source between my appetizer and main course at Hostellerie le Chateau (the brave among us chose frogs’ legs), and even in pitch blackness the force of the spring emerging from the hillside can be felt, seen and heard. This village was called by the Romans Vallis Clausa, or Closed Valley, and I like that very much.
(St. Kitts)…The island-nation of St. Kitts & Nevis (www.stkittstourism.kn; www.nevisisland.com) was a revelation. There are hardly any tourists, at least not in mid-July, the people are wonderful, and the scenery is resplendent. Added to this is the fact that really there is only one hotel, the 380-or-so-room St. Kitts Marriott (www.stkittsmarriott.com), which sits on North Frigate Bay, the bony part of an island that essentially is shaped like a chicken drumstick—although I thought I’d be creative and also suggest that it looks like a pregnant seahorse. The other hotels on the island run to small plantation-style retreats and a number of non-chain properties. Nevis (more of which later) has the celebrated Four Seasons (www.fourseasons.com/nevis), as well as the gorgeous Montpelier Plantation (www.montpeliernevis.com).
I climbed St. Kitts’ highest spot, Mount Liamuiga, a volcano that has lain dormant for 1,800 years. “Liamuiga” means “fertile land” in the extinct language of Kalinago, and the name replaced Mount Misery. It is steep, the one path climbing over rocks and roots, even through a mini-ravine. Green vervet monkeys can be spotted (introduced by the French in the 17th century), and if lucky (as I was) the rare, skulking Bridled quail-dove (see photo above), which I spotted in a side ditch off the path a quarter of the way back down from the volcano’s peak. Once spotted, though, it just sat there, and I got within 10 feet. The path up ends at a small peak of boulders that once climbed gives a great view of the volcano’s crater lake, which I also saw as my plane neared the island’s airport.
The climb was steep, and as I ate my picnic lunch an opportunistic mongoose (another introduced pest) ate discarded scraps. These critters are everywhere, and most people know the story of how they were introduced to many colonised islands essentially to take care of the burgeoning problem of rat (yet again, also introduced) infestation. That plan was a dismal failure, as rats are nocturnal, while mongoose are diurnal, but both species liberally eat birds’ eggs, and the birds themselves if given half a chance. This misguided adventure has seen hideous ramifications to the fauna of the Hawaiian Islands.
The Liamuiga hike is an all-day jaunt, but it is certainly worth the toil. The Dutch island of Sint-Eustatius (aka Statia) can be seen, as can—only very clear days—the French-Dutch island of Saint Martin/Sint-Maarten.
While the Liamuiga area is lush, receiving most of the island’s rain, the southeastern peninsula, which starts at the southern end of North Frigate Bay, is drier. I ran there one afternoon, and the small road is steep, although rewarding. The road loops around at several spots, and lonely beaches can be reached. The view of Canoe Bay was especially beautiful, a rich, verdant, tiny valley appearing bright green. It really looked like something that travellers might attach the proper noun “Eden” to. Three small mountains dot this peninsula that goes to Great Salt Pond and Major’s Bay, where a ferry departs across the two-mile Narrows to Nevis. More ferries leave St. Kitts’ capital Basseterre, a small town that almost is gone in a blink. Several remote beach bars are perfect places to spend a morning, such as the Reggae Beach Bar (www.reggaebeachbar.com) on Mosquito Bay (not as ominous as it sounds) and the Shipwreck Bar (www.shipwreckbeachbarandgrill.webs.com) on a particularly pleasant stretch of South Friars Bay.
The sister island of Nevis was becoming a minor obsession with me. I had run along the peninsula essentially to hop on the 20-minute ferry (the ones from Basseterre take 45 minutes), but the eight-kilometre-long road was steeper than I imagined, so I saw that I did not have sufficient time. On other days, the ferry times all were not convenient, so the nearest I got was a catamaran ride on Leeward Islands Charters (www.leewardislandscharters.com) that sailed past a couple of wrecked ships and the end of the peninsula, to within sight of the tiny Booby Island (named after a genus of bird) and to within 200 feet of Nevis—but not to Nevis. Another time perhaps!
Probably the most interesting historical site on St. Kitts is Brimstone Hill Fortress (www.brimstonehillfortress.org), which sits in Liamuiga’s shadow. It is a wonderful spot, small enough that it all can be seen but large enough that you do not need to see it with anyone else, and, although not immediately noticeable, there are overgrown paths that allow you not to retrace your steps on the relatively steep hills. The British built the fortress (or at least its slaves did), but the French ruled it, too. Both nations, and, a little before, the Spanish, fought over these islands, only seemingly announcing peace when together their desire was to kill off the indigenous inhabitants.
The top of the fortress gives a great view, and some 17th-century graffiti can be seen. A view of the island's cricket ground can be seen, too. My driver, Scotty, claimed he was the closest St. Kitts ever got to a Test Match cricketer for the West Indies. This is a source of shame to the island, another guide, Thenford Grey, telling me that the only player from St. Kitts to do so was Joey Benjamin, who actually played for—gasp!—the England team, and only once for them. Even more painful is the fact that Nevis has produced two or three. As many tourists to St. Kitts are Americans, this painful history needs not even to be mentioned.
Several American airlines make direct flights.
(Valencia, Spain)…Valencia is Spain’s third-largest city, but in terms of tourism, it is way down this beautiful country’s list, far smaller places such as Toledo, Córdoba and Santiago de Compostela out-muscling it. You get the impression that the Valencianos rather like it that way. Tourists do come, and they walk to the walled old town, El Centro, and along the Turia Gardens, which used to house the city’s river until a devastating flood in 1957 persuaded city burghers to alter its course. At the southern end of this thin, attractive park full of strollers and runners are native son Santiago Calatrava’s iconic buildings, all white and light, alongside pools and his own bridges—the famous Ciutat de les Arts i les Ciències, which includes his L'Hemisfèric, L'Oceanogràfic and El Palau de les Arts Reina Sofía. Friends tell me that many stand outside these edifices, but few go in, which reminded me of Oslo’s stunning new Opera House.
Valencianos consider what they speak to be a separate language, and they spell their city València. Far from me to argue, but local names take precedence over Castilian ones in such areas as Russafa and El Carmen, a trendy, slightly shabby area of the already relatively small El Centro area. The former has squats, narrow, cobblestone streets and the wonderful Caracola restaurant, which I head for every time I go. I am very happy there eating patatas bravas and drinking café con leche. Just outside this area, close to the Torres de Quart towers, is the city’s unsung botanical garden, which for €1 admission on a sunny day might be the best deal in town if you have a coffee and a good book. It felt a little like Buenos Aires, and its proper name is the Huerto de Tramoyeres. Russafa is just behind the train station and bullring on Calle Xàtiva, but it might as well be a moon’s-distance away for many visitors. It’s up and coming, interesting, full of characters and has a cool indoor market. One place I love there, on Carrer de Dénia, is the bookstore-bar, Slaughterhouse (www.slaughterhouse.es), which used to be a butchers, hence the name.
Back in El Centro there are interesting nooks and crannies around the cathedral, and the ornate, renovated post office on the otherwise crowded, to-be-avoided Plaça del l’Ajuntament square is definitely worth a perusal. The area of El Centro reached by crossing the Turia on the Pont d’Aragó bridge and immediately turning right will have you amid far fewer people, at least until you reach the cathedral and the adjacent Basílica de la Virgen de los Desamparados, or the Virgin Mary’s Basilica for the Abandoned. Two other spots I like are the small Plaza Redonda, round as its name would suggest and which locals call El Clot, or The Hole, which I also like, and, if here on a Thursday, the weekly water tribunal, an ancient court in which seven city elders pass judgement on disputes between farmers concerning water. Every time I have been to Valencia, no one has stepped up with a complaint, so all I have seen are black robes, chairs, questioning looks and a shrug of the shoulders as they go back indoors from where they’ve come from for a glass of wine. This court, on the Plaza de la Virgen, is regarded as the oldest democratic institution in Europe and was originally a Moorish initiative.
One of the cool things about Valencia for the independent traveller is that it did not even reach the levels of tourism it enjoys today until well after its small airport—Manises—built an underground rail system in the late 1980s. That means you can get straight from the airport into the middle of town in 20 minutes or so. Continue on until the station called Maritim-Serreria, very close to the Mediterranean Sea. This is the getting-off point for the Roma area of the city, Cabanyal, which is a grid of thin streets and colourful houses. The northern part is threatened by a road that will extend Avenida de Viscente Blasco Ibáñez another 400 metres to the sea so that people can reach the beach one minute more quickly than they would have done. That avenue is named after the author (largely forgotten in English-speaking circles) of Los Cuatro Jinetes del Apocalipsis (The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse), who was born in the city. Cabanyal (see photo above) was a village of fishermen, and it was here that were originally developed the distinctive Valenciano houses called barraques, which now can only be seen (and very few of them) on the large marsh of Albufera to the south of the city. The Albufera grows the bomba rice that is the key ingredient of paella, the most-known dish from the region.
A little south of Cabanyal, close to the port, is the district of Bétero, which has two museums of note. I am not generally a fan of museums, but I like strange ones, and the Museo de Arroz (Rice Museum; http://www.museoarrozvalencia.com/) certainly qualifies. For an odd reason, there are lots of Spanish posters of classic Hollywood films on the walls of its three floors, and I can only think they’re there because threshing, winnowing and watering equipment for rice, with descriptions in a language you may not read, aren’t exactly riveting, or it might be that it is a temporary exhibit; better is the Museo Atarazanas, which is in an old warehouse with arches, art and plenty of light. Museums are free on Sundays. Just behind is the Plaza Tribunal de las Aguas, which might suggest that this was the original site of the water court, not where it is held today in the city centre.
Another less-visited area is Benimaclet, which has a similar feel to Bétero and Cabanyal and can be walked to on a slightly circuitous walk back to Russafa and El Centro. This is the traditional place to drink orxata (in Castillian, horchata), a summer drink of water, sugar and chufa nut, a root plant, also known as tigernut. When it’s hot, a glass of this and a chorizo sandwich is bliss.
(Toronto, Canada)...Perhaps of any city in the world, currently there are more construction cranes in Toronto that any other—and I have recently been to China and Central America. There is a boom going on in Canada’s business city, and money—a lot of it Asian—is being invested in condos and other real estate, even in formerly run-down, ignored districts such as Ossington and West Queen West, a mile and two miles, respectively, west of Downtown. These areas also are known for being artistic hubs, too, and the question on everyone’s lips is how Art can sit pretty with Commerce.
Artists traditionally survive in gritty neighborhoods, but today, that does not mean Ossington and West Queen West are areas to be avoided. Trips to Toronto’s burgeoning arts scene will richly reward you.
Both are safe, along the lines, say, of New York City’s Alphabet City and London’s Hoxton Square and Clerkenwell. The catalyst for the areas’ development was the 2004 appearance of two hotels—The Drake and, very shortly afterwards, the Gladstone—both in West Queen West. Both have art at their core. The Gladstone (www.gladstone.com), with 37 different, artist-designed rooms, and in a building dating to 1889, has a bar with a sound stage, a room off that with weekly arts classes, changing gallery exhibitions on the 3rd floor, an events ballroom, a delightful, sunny coffee and dining room and a stand-alone gallery space on the 2nd floor. One accommodations room—by far its most popular—has neon covering its window, and an inside wall and outdoor roof are covered in living grass. Staying at this hotel makes you feel your inner artist.
The 19-room Drake (www.thedrakehotel.ca) is equally celebrated and slightly better known. It has a club called Drake Underground, which as its name suggests puts on up-and-coming acts, and the Hey Loft and Sky Yard, an exciting bar connected to an outdoor space featuring art and a movie screen. Art dots the hotel, and the owners, like those of the Gladstone, rehabilitated a Victorian building whose best days were far behind it.
To get an insider’s view of the Ossington and West Queen West areas, book an individual or small group walking tour with the wonderful, informative Betty Ann Jordan of Art Insite (www.artinsite.com). Jordan is an arts journalist and artist who knows the players and can explain the art on show—occasionally the artists on show, too—in the areas’ more than 200 galleries. My favorite stops were the art galleries of Katharine Mulherin (www.katharinemulherin.com) and the photography gallery of Stephen Bulger (www.bulgergallery.com), who represents, among others, Larry Towell, Canada’s only member of the exclusive Magnum group of photographers and some of whose images, collected in his book The World From My Front Porch, I could have stared at all afternoon.
Of course, what is on view changes all the time, which is just more of an excuse to keep returning. One gallery displayed an array of small robots that only moved into action when the sun heated their solar panels; parts of this show were sped-up film of the robots (showing when they did finally spring into action) and hefty black books containing the coding information required for it all to happen and make sense. It was art in 3D, perhaps an analysis of Plato’s notion of forms, although a philosopher—which I am not—might be better suited to comment on this.
West Queen West and Ossington also are great shopping streets—culturally so: Clothing, books, art, of course, and even a store selling only punk-rock records, that is, vinyl, not compact discs.
A grand park, Trinity Bellwoods, sort of separates the two areas and is well worth a walk. Surrounding it are Portuguese and Chinese communities, and tucked behind a park building, seemingly forgotten, is a statue commemorating Simón Bolívar, the liberator of South America. When waking through parks or shops gets too tiring, a great coffee shop to spend half an hour is El Almacen (1078 Queen St. W.), a welcoming Argentine spot that features yerba maté, a popular South American tea-like infusion.
And, if you walk all the way down Queen St. W. through West Queen West and Ossington, you will reach the more familiar Toronto of the CN Tower and the Hockey Hall of Fame; but apart from the Carousel Bakery, for peameal-bacon sandwiches in the St. Lawrence Market, and a quick sortie around the new Santiago Calatrava-designed Allen Lambert Galleria building for its light-infused, arched spaces, I think I will stay in the grittier neighborhoods, with the proviso that I could leave again to eat at the splendid Ame restaurant (19 Mercer St.; www.ame.com), where chef Guy Rubino makes some of the best sushi on earth.
Yes, other than those reasons, I’ll stay to the west of downtown. After all, something artistic is currently going on.
