Torino: City of Lights

The New York Times wrote a beautiful article this week about the post-Olympics revitalization of Italy's one-time capitol city, Torino. I read the piece with fond sentiment remembering the first time I laid eyes on Turin, on a cold November evening in 2006.

It looked like an entire city built from lights; a real life Lite-Brite empire. Renaissance and modern facades glowed in shades of cream, antique street lamps cast orbs of warm yellow hues in the air and the full white moon dangled just above the tip of the impressive Mole.

It was my first time to Italy, and the emotion of being surrounded by such beauty was so overwhelming that I felt as weightless as the moon. The city's porticoes were the only thing keeping me from floating away like a carefree balloon at the town fair.

Could a city be this electric and elegant at the same time? New York City has the energy, but it often comes with chaos and confusion. Paris exudes elegance but doesn't share the same openness as Italian cities. But Turin; it felt like the most magical place I'd ever been.

It was a night of firsts. My first Italian cocktail. A perfectly chilled Martini Bianco with a twist of lemon, which still to this day remains my favorite pre-dinner drink.

My first taste of aperitivo. It was at La Drogheria, a funky, loungy bar in Piazza Vittorio. The crowd was as diverse and colorful as each of the different stuzzichini on display. It was the first of many times I would hear Bob Marley songs in Italy.

My first time hearing live music in a piazza, an experience that has repeatedly been one of my favorites. The band was of various ethnicities and the driving African drum beats had the entire piazza buzzing along to the rhythm.

My first visit to an Italian discoteca, La Rotonda. It felt as exclusive as any New York City nightclub with as many, if not more, "beautiful people" who all seemed to look like they were distant cousins of each other. I remember thinking how novel an idea it was to actually let people past the velvet ropes without cocky doorman politics and five-hundred dollar bottle service.

At the disco, I mingled with new friends in very broken Italian and danced until I couldn't feel my feet, and then danced some more. Later the house DJ cleared the decks for a live Italian band, and the entire club sang in raucous harmony. I mouthed the words as best I could, making sure to shout out the simpler chorus, sort of like Italians do with "YMCA."

It was a night that sparked something in me. It was the night I fell in love with Italy.

Abroad'r View from Mom

This year, my twenty-six year old daughter, Courtney, presented me with the mother of all Mother’s Day gifts: a sixteen day-long adventure, with her, in Italy. I missed her terribly, as she had been living and working there as an English teacher for over a year, so the idea of spending two and a half weeks with her exploring the Amalfi Coast was a most appealing prospect on many levels. So, on July 14th, I gleefully boarded a Eurofly jet at Kennedy Airport for the eight and a half hour journey -- alone, but in the warm company of a planeload of Italian families, presumably on their way back to Naples after a visit to America. Courtney had arranged our itinerary, which included four main destinations: Sorrento, Ischia, Capri, and Praiano, situated on the coast midway between Amalfi and Positano. Having become completely fluent in Italian over the past year, she was easily able to select simple, elegant, off-the-beaten-track accommodations for us in each city – the ones typically frequented by European travelers, rather than the usual choices of American tour groups. This suited me fine, as one of my hopes for the trip was to become as immersed as possible in the culture, language, and day-to-day life of the locals. Since we would be on the move during our stay, I had endeavored to pack little more than the essentials: flat, comfortable walking shoes for navigating the hilly, coastal terrain; light, loose-fitting clothing, as the temperature promised to be soaring; a good camera, loaned to me by my other daughter; and a blank travel journal, to record my thoughts, feelings, and observations. It is this last item, my journal, which brings me to this page today.

The physical beauty, emotional connection, cultural appeal and personal challenge of this adventure unexpectedly, but absolutely, lifted it from a truly wonderful vacation to the ranks of a life-altering experience. I came away entranced, inspired, humbled, and enlivened. Several people who have seen me since my return have commented that I appear to have “a glow” about me. As I traveled, my faithfully written daily narratives were dedicated to painstakingly communicating every glorious sensory detail of my experiences. However, while re-reading my journal upon my return to Long Island, I discovered that the best way to rouse the powerful memories I now obsessively desire to play over and over again in my mind is to go to my “stream of consciousness” pages, on which I had simply peppered dozens of individual words, like rapid-fire buckshot; which, when read in random order and mentally processed, evoke a flood of deep, clear, and satisfying reminiscences. How thrilling that these simple, single words hold the key to the vast vault of sounds and images safely stored in my brain -- accessible at any moment as a chance encounter or a purposeful departure from the mundane.

I will ever be grateful to my daughter and the forces in my life that opportunely converged this summer, allowing me to partake of such a rich and glorious sojourn. And I will return often to my treasured pages of written scatterings, then close my eyes and dream.

-Written by my mom, JoAnn Scott

First Impressions: Paris

New York Minutes

I made it home to JFK in one piece, and surprisingly so did my five bottles of olive oil, four bottles of wine, balsamic vinegar, grappa and honey. It's not often that I thank an airline, especially after seeing the bill, but I think I owe a bit of gratitude to Delta for noticing my "FRAGILE" sticker. And another shoutout to Delta for organizing a celebrity sighting in honor of my New York homecoming (you shouldn't have).

It was Wyclef Jean, he was sportin' a shaved head, army green jacket and was waiting for his luggage at baggage claim 3 (I was at 4). I debated harassing him for an autograph to show my students in Italy, but then I remembered I'm home, quickly put on my "Jaded New Yorker" cap and went about my business.

Customs was a breeze and reuniting with my mom was a wonderful (and very Hallmark) moment. In the car I flipped on Z100 to get a crash course in the latest American pop music. I'm sorry, but who is Flo Rida (not to be confused with the sunny state of Florida) and why is he popular? Maybe I'm missing something, but his song "Low" sounds like every other recent hip hop artist. Where's the originality? And how can I explain shawty, apple-bottom jeans, and booty smackin' to my Italian friends? I miss the days of Tribe Called Quest, Missy, Biggy, and Nas. Luckily my friends over at Vh1 are still serving up kick-ass Hip Hop Honors shows. If you aren't in the know, click here.

When I got home I crashed on my palatial-seeming bed. It was a strange feeling--the sheets were soft, the pillows fluffy, and I could actually roll over without falling off. I started channel surfing only to find that nothing has changed on TV. Oprah is still having "aha" moments, the Hogan clan is causing hijinks, TMZ's hunting celebs and that annoying Head On commercial is still in rotation.

First Impressions: A Girl in Venice

Venice without a camera in hand is a crime, I know. But that was the predicament yesterday for my first ever trip to Venezia. But I`m not worried. Yesterday was one of what I plan to be dozens of trips to this extraordinary city, seeing as it is a stone´s throw from Treviso. I calculated the travel time by train and it´s the equivalent of a subway ride from my apartment in Greenwich Village to my friend`s pad on 81st and Riverside...20 minutes. And train tickets are whopping 3 Euros round trip. Does it get any better?

Back to yesterday. I taught 2 English lessons in the morning but have a rather light afternoon on Mondays so my colleague Francesca decided it was the perfect opportunity to escape to Venice. To build some stamina for our afternoon of sightseeing, Francesca prepared what was, for Italian standards, a light lunch of pepperoncini stuffed with anchovies and capers and rigatoni con pomodoro. We washed it down with a bit of Soave and some caffe.

The late morning downpour had the potential to spoil the trip, as Venice in the rain means high tide and immediatly flooded streets. But what began as a gloomy Monday morning, blossomed into a magically foggy afternoon and it couldn`t have been a more perfect backdrop for Venezia. My first impression was one of complete awe. I did a slow 360 twirl with my eyes perched upward at the incredible balconies and green painted shutters above me, then became affixed with a small motor taxi that zipped in front of me, a gondola that glided behind me...and a water ambulance that hurried by my left.

Oh my god...I am really in Venice.

I had goose bumps for the next two hours as Francesca and I strolled about the misty Calle (narrow streets) and crossed bridge after bridge. We paused on the famous Rialto amidst a small group of camera-happy tourists. Instead of searching for photo ops I found a calm space on the bridge´s ledge and watched the silouttes of three gondaliers rowing in tandum slowing fade into the distance.

Next was Piazza San Marco. It humbled me. I experienced a rare moment of bliss when I stood right in the center of the nearly empty square surrounded by hundreds of glowing white lights. I closed my eyes as the bell tower chimed five times. Each time the hair on my neck rose slightly higher. When I opened my eyes I realized that I had a huge grin on my face...it stayed there the rest of the afternoon.

Francesca was full of funny anecdotes. I especially like the one she told me about the Chinese man last summer who set up a little lemonade-like stand in one of the campi (like a small piazza). But instead of beverages he was selling plastic bags of water from the canal...50 cents a bag. I just can`t imagine that going over as well along the Hudson River.

From campo to campo we went, window shopping in designer boutiques, and pointing out osterie that we would like to one day visit. One campo had a charming mercatino where vendors were closing sales on local delicacies. Another was milling with university students procrastinating their evening of term papers and dissertations. My favorite campo was quite vacant of people but filled instead with the sound of a single violinist. His notes rang out like the far cry of a wolf.

The afternoon slid into evening without notice, but as the bell tower struck six, my tiring legs knew it was time to say goodbye to Venezia...at least for now.

Luckily I have a rare break this weekend...NO WORK ON SATURDAY!

To Venice or BUST!