"Piccoli Piaceri della Vita"

 *Martedì*  

 

    "Do you want to go out for dinner?" He asks, eyebrows raised.
    "Sure, but let's go somewhere casual." I'm not up for a four hour meal production tonight and John is always up for anything so I have to be specific.
    "What about Tony's Pizzeria? It's the eighth best restaurant in Vicenza!" He offers. We feel much more empowered now that we have cellphones and technology at our fingertips. Though I've grown used to not depending upon my phone and continuously leave it behind in the hotel lately (sorry familia!). John scrolls through 'Trip Advisor' and google maps and coordinates our bus route while I change for dinner.

    Tony's pizza is a small pizzeria tucked into south Vicenza, I suppose you could call it the 'slums' but nothing we've seen yet has been worn down enough to really warrant that title. The restaurant is clean and bright with paintings of Manhattan and New York on the walls and guests chattering away enjoying the natural warmth that the pizza ovens give off.
    "How funny!" I point out the paintings to John, "I bet if you go to a pizzeria in manhattan they would have paintings of Italy.." We both laugh at the irony and our waiter comes over to take our order. He is a sweet man who speaks little English. With laugh lines around his mouth and smile lines that crinkle by his eyes. His skin giving away signs of a happy life.
    I order margherita (basic cheese pizza with lots of basil) and John orders the carbonara (a pie that consists of bacon and egg layered with sauce and cheese). We make small talk and overhear the young men next to us discussing Alaska so John pipes in and asks if they're from AK. As it turns out one of the guys had transferred roughly a year ago and John and him had friends in common. They laugh at the coincidence and the waiter brings our drinks.
    I had ordered a large coke but wanted ice so the waiter retreats to fetch me some. Coke products are everywhere in Italy but I have yet to see Pepsi products anywhere. It's an odd realization I came upon while dining out one evening.

    I sip on my coke while John drinks his German beer,
    "Woah, that's a little strong.." He exclaims with a laugh.
    "Must be authentic." I tease with a smile. Soon the waiter has our pies in hand and sets them down for us.

Margherita.

Carbonara.

Me being embarassing and preparing myself for this epic meal.

Massive, with the cheese still bubbling and sizzling, we are provided with a knife and a fork and no pizza cutter. We notice an elderly Italian gentleman eating across the room and take his lead cutting into the pizza and eating it with our cutlery instead of our hands. We are later thankful for this choice as the quality of this pizza demands the respect of using real silverwear and not pawing at it like the American culinary savages we are.

One of their pizza ovens I snapped a picture of as we were leaving.

John finishes his whole pie, and I leave what would probably be considered roughly two slices had it ben sliced, and we go pay the two men up front. I want gelato again but after a twenty minute fruitless search thanks to google, we come up empty handed and resign to the bus stop. John promising to take me later on in the week.

*Mercoledì*

The next day John has no work appointments so we set off to go shopping in the city. It is a bright and sunny day, casting a humid yet light warmth over everything. I have been lusting after H&M since we we came to Italy over a week ago and today is the day I will get to explore. I've always loved H&M clothing from afar (the internet) but have never lived near enough to one to shop so stepping into the store was like a shopping dream coming to fruition. John weaves through racks with me, giving me advice on color and such when prompted. He really is great to shop with, despite his very male short attention span. I find three tops and a dress and we pay and leave. Of the two floors I could have easily purchased more but restrained myself.

Outside of H&M.

After H&M we continue on down the small street. It is the same street we found our restaurante at the past weekend and we window shop at the expensive leather and silk shops. We pass different lingerie boutiques and candy stores and odds and ends. I've nearly decided to turn around as I'm starting to get hungry when I spot Kiko. Kiko is a cosmetics company based out of Milan that does not sell their product in the US. I've been talking about them to John for weeks so when I squeal like a small child and run for the entrance he is not surprised in the least bit. Yet again I want to buy the whole store but am trying to save my money for the weekend so that I may buy some authentic Italian products from the weekend market we had seen before. Less than ten euro later I have a brand new gorgeous eyeshadow and we are back on track.

We begin seeing people with gelato coming from the direction we are traveling and we get excited. We finally come upon a gelateria and run in. John gets a scoop of 'kinder bueno' a flavor that has real kinder bueno candy bars in it. And I get a scoop of 'limone'. Mine is very tart yet still very creamy and John says his is to die for exclaiming that it tastes just like the candy. I don't like the bueno candies as they have hazelnut.

Outside of the gelato place who's name we cannot remember. 

Like most places in Vicenza it does not exist when googled,

we apologize.

Though, this gelato was much better than Venchi, and if you come to visit

us we will definately be taking you there.

We are done shopping for the day and as none of the food places will reopen for a couple of hours we walk a little looking at some of the historical architecture and then decide to head back to base and grab a bite to eat from one of the Greek street vendors (best gyro you'll ever have).

John in the little square by the Teatro Olympico,

which also happens to be the end of the street we

shopped on.

One of the historical buildings that is actually a govrnment building

of some type.

Check out those life-size statues up top!

(This country is a Who fan's worst nightmare, I swear.)

*Giovedi*

We have quite a few appointments on Thursday with housing and in-processing, but after completing them set out for town once again. This time by taxi, to a Chinese restaurant we've heard a lot about. I'll let you experience this one via pictures with minimal annotation as the food was not an incredibly memorable experience, though the decor made quite the impact.

This guy reminded me of Mushu from Disney's Mulan,

so of course I had to get a photo with him. 

The aquarium floor that housed multiple

species of fish including mini sharks. 

I was very impressed by the size of this coca-cola

can. Cans of soda are shaped long and skinny here

but this one was the size of a typical

american energy drink, aka; too big.

Our main dishes, orange and cashew chicken.

The orange chicken was made with blood oranges,

a product native to Sicily and therefore very common

in dishes John and I have had. They are absolutely amazing.

Our deserts, a gelato-type mousse and a lemon layer cake.

John said that the large dark berry-looking thing on the lemon cake

was actually a licorice-type candy. Weird.

Okay, so there were a few memorable moments. For instance, the fact that the entire dining room floor was actually an aquarium you were expected to trust enough to not only walk, but dine on. It was definately John's sort of thing but it lead to me being squeamish nearly the whole dinner. Also, I made John switch plates with me for both course's as I liked what he had ordered much better. I doubt he'll allow me to 'try a bite' of anything else he orders for quite some time.

On a rather personal note, this week my family suffered a great loss. My cousin, much too young was taken in a tragic accident leaving behind two sweet girls and his wife. This loss has made me stop and appreciate what's in front of me. Being able to sit on a warm day eating gelato with my best friend. Or watching his face light up as we walk into an Italian camera store. Being able to love and be loved with no rules against it and nothing standing in my way. All in all it has been a good week filled with laughter, love and enjoying our new home. In light of my families loss I have committed myself to trying to enjoy the very many small pleasures in life.

The 'piccoli piaceri della vita'.

"..Bella Notte"

    "Pleeeeease!" He begs, puppy dog eyes and all.
    "Fine! But..." I'm cut off as he jumps from the couch in excitement and runs to the bedroom to grab his computer. He's been pleading with me for the past hour to go out on the town to dinner with him and with my luggage finally returned to me, I agree. At least I'll be able to wear nice clothing and makeup for the first time in days.
    "Buuuut," I attempt again now that he's returned to the room, "you need to make sure we have a way to get there and back, make sure you know where we're going, and that we can even get in...it is a Sunday evening you know!"
     He's grinning from ear to ear whilst half-listening to my demands. He shuts his laptop with a light 'smack' and starts for the door.
     "And when I say 'make sure', the internet DOES NOT COUNT!" I am pretty sure he heard me but the door clicks and he's undoubtedly on his way to talk to the front desk for suggestions.

     We are dressed up and on our way to the bus, the trip made much shorter by riding our brand new bikes. John swerves and hops and shows off while I guide my trike(yes, it is a tricycle) slowly and carefully through the street. The night is beautiful and though leaving base makes me apprehensive I find myself looking forward to our long dreamt about meal. The ideal is to find a place tucked away and small, ran by locals. We lock up our bikes and head for the stop.

    Our bus ride is short and uneventful. We hop off a few stops later than our choice from the day before and notice a street market of sorts. The square is absolutely packed with people. Locals and tourists alike. Shoppers with bags from H&M and suit shops that would give Armani a run for their money. Bags filled with breads and cheeses and wines and shoes and jewelry and hand made glass. You name it, their selling it. And all of it sparkles and glistens and fills your nostrils. We don't talk much as we meander through the crowds. But occasionally something will stick out and we'll laugh or gape.

These three dogs belonged to the man on the bicycle in front

of them and followed him wherever he went.

     We head toward the large catedral looking around and taking it in. We're both hungry though so John turns us around toward the piazza. As we're walking we observe the people. Everywhere you look people are greeting each other with kisses or lighting a cigarette. Some walk with a hurried purpose, almost seeming annoyed, most likely locals who are just trying to complete their weekly shopping. Others leisurely wander like us, just trying to stay out of peoples way.
     We hit the piazza and pick a street to go down. As we're walking I'm beginning to become more and more aware of my hunger. The word restaurante is now my target and I am a heat seeking missile. Despite my laser-focus, a menu catches John's eye first. It's on a small a-frame poster and printed on basic paper. I would have walked right by. We skip across the street toward it and skim the offer. A four course meal for only fifteen euro. Sold.

We scurry down the alleyway and come upon the restaurante and the courtyard it opens up to. A pleasant young woman greets us as we both do full circles taking in the gorgeous buildings it's tucked into.

    "Hi!" I say, not even attempting an Italian greeting.
    "Buongiorno!" John says with a smile. Proud of his retention of last nights Rosetta Stone lesson.
    "Hi." The young woman returns with a laugh. We roll our eyes at John and she seats us outside. The weather is perfection for eating as it's cool enough to ward off the bugs but warm enough that it's still comfortable.
    John and I quick look at the menu and decide we're going to do the deal advertised that brought us in. I order the gnocchi for my first course. Little potato-pasta-dumplings dressed in butter and herbs. As a self-proclaimed carb addict, my first course promises to be fabulous. John orders the bigoli, always going for the oddest thing on the menu, and the most authentic. We order our other courses and she brings us out our drinks and some fresh baked breads and nuts.
    "I'm never going to find good beer.." John makes a face after taking a drink out of his glass. I laugh,
    "You're just going to have to develop a taste for wine.".
He glares and I smirk and a few minutes later we receive our first course.

John's dish was a handmade pasta with

a sauce made of sardines.

The flavor was similar to that of a cesar salad dressing.

We gobble down our first course. Barely stopping to exclaim how absolutely delicious it is and exchange tastes of each others dishes. Soon enough, the waitress brings out our second course with both John and I ordering a fresh salad. Talk about a palate cleanser. The vegetables are so fresh they pop and crunch in your mouth, the bitterness of the tomato complimenting the sweetness of the carrots. We've dressed them with olive oil and balsamic vinegar brought out to us separately so we can use the exact amount we want.

After the salad comes our main course. I ordered the chicken "stew" expecting a bowl of something but receiving a plate instead, and John orders the grilled pork. I raise my eyebrows at my dish as it's served to me but go with it anyways and we dig in. By this point we are already pretty full, as the portions are not skimpy whatsoever. However, there is about twenty minutes between each course, allowing us to digest a bit.

Yet again we are amazed by the quality of our food. The chicken in my stew is very apparently slow-cooked as the meat is falling off the bone, and the sauce of onion and tomatoes absorbs into my grilled polenta, all together each bite is a whole spectrum of tastes and textures that consume me. John's dish is wonderful as well. You can tell that this family-run place is serving us what they would make for themselves at home.

Our amazing main course.

Finally, we have dessert, an apple pie type pastry with the texture of a pudding. It has nuts layered throughout it and a strawberry sauce for dipping, accenting. John devours his but I only taste mine, as I am holding out for gelato after dinner. The sweet young woman takes our plates away and allows us to pay, though she seems a bit confused by our rushed nature. We only have about half an hour left until the last bus comes through and we still have to find a gelato place.

A light dessert.

She gives us a suggestion on gelato that's close and we thank her again, leaving through the alleyway we came.

Following her directions we weave our way through the crowds toward the shopping and sure enough Venchi is on our right.

Note the bambina pouting in the lower left-hand

corner. It is a crime to be deprived of ice cream

no matter what country you're in.

We enter and wait our turn as we admire all of the brightly colored ice creams and chocolates. John points out that they have pistachio, and I point out a rich chocolate cream. Both of us in the interest of the others favorites. I get a cone and John a small paper bowl, we pay and depart. The gelato is delicious, the flavor much stronger than that of American ice cream. Mine is warm and nutty and creamy while John's is rich and bold. I think of a quote from the Lizzie McGuire movie that takes place in Italy, a childhood favorite of mine.


Miss Ungermeyer, Lizzie's high school tour guide and chaperone in response to one of the kids being upset while they are touring Rome;

"...Gelato! Now, remember Italian ice cream has about twice the sugar of American ice cream. So you want what? Two scoops?"

You got it, Miss Ungermeyer!

We make it to our bus with plenty of time to spare and enjoy our ride back, though I am anxious, as always that we will miss our stop, John hits the button just in time and we deboard and head back through the gate.

My tricycle, which has a basket on the back

big enough to carry all of our groceries

when I go shopping.

After a cool and serene ride back to our hotel we discuss our evening and I start humming a tune I've had stuck in my head all night. A tune from a movie that has always been synonymous with Italy and Italian food in my mind.

"This is the night,
What a beautiful night,
And we call it 'bella notte'"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_zyQ1x9Jxoc

"Calzature è Fondamentale"

     "Babe. I'm going to go get breakfast."
     "Okay...hold on, I'll come with you."
Ten minutes later John was no more awake than when I had informed him I was leaving but he holds my hand and successfully navigates the air conditioned hallways with me to our daily continental breakfast. Breakfast is one of the highlights of the hotel on base. Compared to the military-run inns I've stayed at before, this place is five star. In our room we have a spacious living area with tile floors and charming Italian-themed paintings. We also have a kitchenette which includes stove top, dishwasher, microwave, full size fridge, sink, and various dishes and cookware. Definitely enough to sustain ourselves and make meals of our own if we so choose. Though I don't see that happening anytime soon.

     I grab two strawberry and cream cheese muffins, some apple juice and an orange and meet John at our usual table. We've been doing this for three days now so we've got a nice little routine going. He's already cracking and peeling his hard-boiled eggs while drinking his first espresso. First of many, that is. If John has taken to anything Italian it's definitely the caffeine packed shots of coffee or cafe.
     John glances at me and laughs;
     "You're just ready to go, aren't you?"
     "Um, yeah...pretty much!" I've stuffed nearly half my muffin in my mouth so it comes out as a garbled semi-confirmation. John understands me anyways, one of the perks of being married I suppose. Today we've planned to go into town for the first time and I'm bouncing with excitement. We have finally remedied our awful jet lag( I swear they put drugs in that airplane food to make me sleep the way I did). I've been up for about two hours by now and I'm more than ready.

     We finish our breakfast and hurry back to our room. I pack my backpack with everything we might need while John finishes getting ready and then briefly searches the internet for a map of the area.
     "Why don't we just go to the front desk and ask them the best way? They probably have maps and are used to this sort of thing."
     We are planning on walking into town. Seeing it as an opportunity to enjoy more of Italy and not pay for a taxi.
     The front desk girls balk at our plan to walk into town and inform us that there is a bus stop just outside of gate that is very cheap and easy to ride since it's about five miles into town. I don't want to but John convinces me, logic on his side and we head for the proper gate to take the bus.
     Five minutes into our walk John asks about my feet. I've chosen some very flattering strappy sandals as I know we'll be taking a lot of pictures. I assure him it will be fine and that I need to build up some 'summer calluses' anyways. He gives me a disapproving look but changes the subject.

     We get out of gate with no problem and head to the bus stop, it was simple to find and we couldn't have waited more than five minutes before our bus shows up. It is two euro per person to ride the bus, and your ticket lasts two hours, so if you need to switch busses or you're going for a short trip, you don't have to pay multiple times. It's a great value and very clean and simple for public transportation. It seems in this country they value eco-friendly measures much more than in the states.
     We hop off the bus at the stop the front desk girls suggested and start walking. We're allowing ourselves to wander and though it's fun for the moment, I know it will frustrate me if we do not form a plan for later. John is eating up the idea of getting lost in the city but with neither of us speaking the language and having no phones to reach the outside world, I am not as enthused with the idea.

We hobble down a narrow stone-lined street and John darts into the first open door he sees.
     "You probably can't just walk in there!" I yell. It is a large wooden door that opens up into a courtyard of sorts with statues and balconies and trees and bright green foliage. It's gorgeous and picturesque and just the kind of thing you hope to see in Italy.

A few pictures from the 'Teatro Olympico'.

     "Take out your camera!" I prod John, worries of trespassing gone from my mind as I notice others wandering in.
     "Fine, if you want to be tourist-y this early on in the trip..." John trails off opening up my pack to retrieve his camera. We have a big thing against being "tourist-y". Tourists were always awful in Alaska filling up our favorite restaurants and hiking up prices on nearly everything. We know how annoying it is so we try to avoid it the best we can wherever we go. It's proving to be a bit harder here.
After taking a few pictures we walk out of the beautiful courtyard and notice a sign in English that we missed earlier perched just outside the door we came in. "TEATRO OLYMPICO" it boasts with a brief historical description. Just the sort of thing we were hoping for, randomly wandering into historical landmarks.

    We continue to walk for about ten minutes and come upon a large cobble-stone looking bridge. It's beautiful, stretching itself over a aquamarine-colored river and lined with sunwashed buildings and greenery. We stop to admire and take a few more pictures.

The gorgeous bridge we happened upon 

early in the day.

    We walk some more, for about half an hour, after initially entering what we assumed was town and passing a few shops and restaurants, and one rather large government building. We wander in and out of side streets, and down alleyways, even through some peoples yards but no one stops us. By this point I'm getting a bit irritated with the randomness and worried that we're lost so John leads us back to a main road and down towards a large roundabout.
My feet are beginning to hurt and I'm starting to feel hungry so John suggests going to the Italian grocery he had spotted a ways back. We enter the Interspar and it's bustling with people as any grocery store is on a Saturday morning. We peruse the aisles and marvel at the food choices and prices. It's huge and everything looks delicious.
     "Hey, I bet they have your Kinder here!" John waggles his eyebrows at me and smiles.
     "Oh my gosh, I almost forgot!"
We locate the candy and sure enough they have my favorite chocolates. Though they are called a different name here in Italy, the picture is the same so I know it's them. They don't sell it in America so it's been years since I've had it and it takes every bit of adult self-control I posses not to rip into the packaging right there. Instead we grab a giant bottle of water and go to pay. We pay for our goods( a mere two euro and some change) and head out of the Italian super-centre.
    We stop at a bench so that I can open up my candy and we can hydrate a bit. John had never had Kinder before and agrees it ruins all American chocolate and I feel accomplished.

When I was in high school, my mom had a friend who

would travel to Europe and bring these

candies back.

I've craved them ever since.

My feet have swollen while we are sitting and John suggests we head back the way we came. I agree.

    About a ten minute trek takes us back to the small shopping area we entered into and we stop at a quaint Trattoria for some pizza and drinks. I order a slice of margherita, and John asks for a slice of whatever the man who's helping us likes. They crisp it up for us in their large stone oven and serve it to us warm and fresh, wrapped in paper so that we can walk with it. Instead we sit and eat. John's pizza has tuna and onion and he gobbles it up as do I my cheese and we smile at each other. Another amazing meal in Italy. We have yet to be disappointed in the food anywhere.

A shot of the food selection at the Trattoria.

Trattorias are small restaraunts that cannot be

classified as cafes because

they do not serve coffee.

    John wants to continue exploring but I can feel blisters forming from my shoes and have been sure to vocalize it for approximately the last hour or so. John makes an executive decision for us to head back to the bus stop. We hop on the bus that took us downtown and ride it for about ten minutes. As we ride we realize we did not even penetrate halfway into the cities core and that we were merely on the outskirts. We are not disappointed but now know to get off the bus a bit later. Everyone but us gets off the bus and it has yet to turn around when the driver motions John forward and through a brief conversation of broken Italian and English lets him know that we need to take a different bus back to base as the busses here do not run in circles like they do in the states. We thank him and get off only to immediately get on the next bus going the opposite way.

    We ride back through town while John converses with an elderly Italian man with eyebrows longer than most men's hair, and get off at our stop to go back through the gate to post. I complain the entire five minute walk to the hotel as I can feel the skin on my feet peeling up where my shoes rub them and John tries his best to be supportive when really he's disappointed we didn't get to stay out more.

Overall it was a successful day in my book and I promised John the next time we go I'll wear my running shoes. So, what did we learn today kids? Calzature è Fondamentale.

Footwear is key.