Moorea

After our recovery day in Papeete after the red-eye flight we catch the morning ferry to Moorea.  Just thirty minutes away by boat, Moorea is light years removed from the hustle and bustle of Papeete.

Towering cumulus clouds hover over the dark land mass floating in an azure blue sea.  Our ship moves closer to reveal craggy mountains, jagged and tortured by a million years of volcanic activity .  Another half million years of wind and rain erosion carved the basalt now cloaked in thick green jungle.  A lone car wends its way along a narrow road;  a small ribbon of black between mountains and sea.  We rush to our car as the ramp of the ferry lowers to the wharf.  I shift into gear, make a sharp left to exit the dim bowels of the ship into brilliant tropical sunlight.

Quickly orienting I turn left onto the road that rings the island.  Just a year ago, we were  making a similar trip around the island of Iceland.  Both islands sprang from the sea as fountains of hot lava.  Latitude created somewhat different landscapes.  Iceland is covered in gorse, heather and tundra;  Moorea in thick tropical jungled.  Bundled in coats hats and gloves for Iceland and stripped down to flip flops, tee shirt and shorts for Moorea. I think I prefer the latter.

The road winds up and over ridges of ancient lava the down to eroded valleys below.  Ahead we spy a mile long strand of pure white coral sand lapped by wavelets that are impossibly blue.  We turn down a bumpy dirt track  and stop under the shade of a towering palm.  We stroll across the sand and dip our feet into the almost body temperature ocean.  A half mile off shore waves crash over the reef.  The lagoon is shadowed with coral and then brilliant azure blue over the sandy bottom.   We sit on the beach living the dream and reluctantly crawl back into the car and continue along the coast.

The road continues to wind around the island.  We follow it into a deep glassy bay where Cook is said to have first landed hundreds of years ago.  I imagine a quite different island then.  No electricity, no cars, no roads, and little thatched shacks with small children running in and out and splashing in the lagoon.  Men casting nets and bare breasted women pounding taro root.  No disease, plenty of food and not much to worry about.  First came Cook, then the missionaries who, with their diseases and religion, almost destroyed the native culture.  Despite this, I am happy to say the Polynesian way of life still seems alive and well despite some radical changes over the centuries.

As we drive we look up at the craggy misty mountains in awe of the majesty and raw beauty.  After taking almost two hours to drive  eighteen miles we arrive at our home for the next few days.  We turn into a narrow dirt track past a handful of traditional bungalows and park on a verdant grassy lawn that slopes gently to the sea.  I note the kayaks, beach lounges and hammocks; a promise relaxing and fun times.



I quickly unload the car and Deb suggests a paddle on the lagoon.  We somehow muscle a 200 pound kayak to the water and paddle off to a small motu (island) in the lagoon.  The motu is capped with trees and fringed with a sandy beach. We follow a channel through the coral and beach on the shore of the motu.  We hike across the island...about one hundred feet and then paddle over to the ruins of a former Club Med.  We explore the grounds dotted with native style bungalows overgrown by the voracious jungle.  We paddle back to our lodge.  Just as we are arriving, it starts to rain so we dash for our porch.

Deb on the motu with Moorea in the background

Club Med

Club Med

It rained all night and the next day started the same way so we jumped in the car to drive the rest of the way around the island.  The highlight of the day was a trip inland up a steep road which switch-backed up through lush tropical jungle of banyans, bamboo and a thousand other  species that I don't have names for.  The clouds and rain lifted long enough for us to look out over the two bays that cut deep into the south side of Moorea; remnants of ancient sideways volcanic eruptions.





We complete our circuit of the island and return to our lodge.  As I write this, I look longingly out from our porch through the overhanging thatch at a hammock slung between two coco palms at the edge of the lagoon.  It is too windy and drizzly to enjoy  but one can always dream.

Stranger than paradise

Ukeleles, mandolins and Hinano beer

I have always dreamed of visiting Tahiti.  In my mind it has always been the quintessential south seas island.  Our first day in this tropical paradise did not disappoint.  The red-eye flight from LA dropped us in Papeete at 5AM.   After a prolonged visit at the Hertz rental car desk we finally got into our tiny Peugeot  and   slightly bleary-eyed, drove into the gray dawn.  The road from F'aaa International airport wound around the north coast of Tahiti  to the French colonial city center of Papeete.  We found our guesthouse without too much trouble, dropped our bags and zipped off to the Sunday morning market.  

 After parking the car, we were distracted by a french patisserie that advertised brioche, croissant and cafe au lait.  Reasoning our way through early morning sleepless airline haze we decided it was a good idea to stop, sit and imbibe.  We treated ourselves to  raison filled brioche and what was probably the best, flakiest, lightest almond pastry ever, washed down with a delicious aromatic cup of cafe au lait.  I thought to myself, "Welcome to Tahiti".  After our brief repast, we walked a short block to the Grand Marche of Papeete.

The tall metal framed building (think Eiffel tower with a tin roof) rises in the center of town.  Outside, the street was a chaotic scene of umbrella shaded stalls with vendors hawking their wares to the passersby.  There were seemingly an endless number of tables heaped with farm fresh produce. Others had elaborate floral arrangements of fragrant tropical flowers.  We stopped to watch ladies popping open plumeria blossoms to string them on leis.  Another street offered snacks like fresh spring rolls and pork sandwiches to keep the shoppers going.  We waded through the crowd to enter the cavernous space. Our first impression was the smell of the sea.   The aisle was lined with several stalls of colorful fresh fish on beds of ice.  Parrot fish, tuna and what looked like red snapper were the main offerings.  A few stalls featured shelled mollusks on a string.

Not being in the market for food, we soon left.  Walking out I spied the steeple of a cathedral so off we went to join the locals in their Sunday worship.  Standing outside the door, it sounded like a host of angels  singing hosannas.   Peeking in, we saw the  packed congregation  singing  high mass.  The energy and enthusiasm was infectious and I found myself humming along. When mass let out, we moved down the street to the seaside to sit on a bench and eat our fresh spring  roll.

Deb wanted to check out the famous black pearls of Tahiti so we wandered around the town for a bit until the pearl market opened.   "Black pearls" is somewhat of a misnomer as the "black"pearl is anything but black.  Colors range from opalescent to a lustrous deep silvery color.  Depending on shape, size, color and flaws the pearls ranged in cost from tens of dollars to several thousand dollars.  

Feeling a little tired from the red-eye flight and lack of sleep we decided to check back with the guest house to see when our room might be available.  We were pleasantly surprised to find it would be ready in a manner of minutes.  After a brief wait, we were shown to our room which overlooked azure pool and garden filled with tropical fruit trees.  The room was  huge and immaculate rwith wainscoting and wall of closets built  with exotic hardwoods.  The clean white sheets beckoned so we crawled into bed for an afternoon siesta.

A few hours later we awoke...starving.  We asked the proprietress for a recommendation and after a short walk settled into a sidewalk brasserie down by the port.    After filling our bellies with  house brewed beer and seafood salad, we meandered along the main boulevard  to be treated to a local x-games like competition of bikes flipping into a giant air bag and a crazy exhibition of front wheel stands over a measured course.  After a few minutes we tired of the pumping beat of the music and started back to our guesthouse. 

Our guesthouse was up a slightly gritty backroad of the capital city, but it felt real.  (You all know we like to keep it real) A few blocks from our lodging, we heard the strains of a ukelele and mandolin accompanied by four part harmonies.  Being the unabashed travelers that we are, we leaned over the gate to listen.  We were soon acknowledged by the owner of the house who then insisted we come in and have a beer.  We were offered small wooden stools and invited to join the circle of musicians.  It is difficult to express the cross cultural magic that followed.  The players riffed off of each other and smiled at us with their eyes.  It seemed that the more we got into the music, the harder they played.  Noting how enthralled we were with the music, the mandolin player presented me with a drum made from a hollowed log that both I and Deb pounded on, albeit lightly, because we were intimidated by the caliber of the musicians.  A few beers and few hours later we staggered off into the twilight feeling that we had experienced in some small measure the essence of the south seas...and this was just our  first day.

As we strolled under a leaden and darkening sky, I reflected on the events of the day and said to myself, "Yeah, this is why I travel".

Tahiti graffiti

Tahiti graffiti

Abruzzo

We went down from Padova to hang out in Abruzzo in one of the hill towns a few kilometers in from the coast.  Deb’s brother’s girlfriend was so enchanted with the area that she bought a house here.  After spending a few days here, we can see why.

Abruzzo vista

Our little Clio zips  up the hill as the sun shoots orange daggers of light through gold rimmed clouds.  A giant fiery dragon cloud is lit by the sun. We pass vineyards with vines  heavy with deep purple grapes, A Lamborghini whizzes by, but this Lamborghini is a tractor pulling a trailer laden with grapes dripping a trail of juice.  It is harvest time in Abruzzo.

Vineyards right, olives left

We roll into a small town perched on a hill overlooking the vineyards and olive orchards below.  Just as the sun is setting,  we spot the only blue house on the street  and find a parking place right in front.  Mike’s girlfriend, bursts out the door just as we pull up.   Her excitement is overwhelming.   She has spent months in anticipation and preparation for our arrival.  We quickly unload the car and are shown to our suite of rooms on the third floor.  I step through French doors and admire the room.  White walls terminate in huge coved crown molding.  A large Venetian chandelier hangs in the center of the room.  A comfy couch placed on a woven mat, invites  me to sit. But Rene is eager to lead us across the terrazzo floor to the bedroom.  A wrought iron bed  covered with a deep blue quilt and lots of pillows invites me to lie down. (I am tired so this is difficult to resist) A small café table, dresser and nightstands with lamps finish the room. She walks across the room and unlatches the French doors.  We step out onto a granite slab balcony to gaze across the orchards and vineyards below.  In the distance I see to the deep blue Adriatic.  At the other end of the suite, I find a view over the rooftops.

View from south balcony

View from north balcony

We head back downstairs to crack open a bottle of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo and  toast the hostess and  Deb’s brother Michael  and dive into a light supper of Italian cold cuts, cheese and fresh Italian bread.    We eat and drink until we can eat no more and decide to take a stroll through the village. 

Out the door to right in just a few feet we find the central piazza.  This is a modest village so there is nothing fancy about the piazza.  It is quiet for a Saturday night, but this is to be expected in a little village in the middle of olive groves and vineyards where everyone has worked the harvest from sunup to sundown.  We walk down narrow streets of three and four story buildings.  The town dates back to the sixth century so many of the houses are hundreds of years old.  You can feel history here as you walk through the quiet  night.  The Lombards came here in the sixth century in search of new income and within a few years, the village was an important commercial center.  However, today it is a sleepy little town that the modern world has mostly passed by.

A few days later, we sit in the downstairs kitchen.  The open door reveals a small slice of the Abruzzo countryside patterned with alternating fields of  olives and grapes.  The late September sun shines brightly here, illuminating hills of green that roll all the way to the sea.  Lunch is a fresh green salad with locally grown greens and tomatoes, the fine red wine of the region and more Italian cold cuts and fresh Italian bread.  I sit and sip my wine gazing out the door.  Life is good.

Dinner at a  local bistro

Mike just needs a little olive oil to feel like a sardine

Life is good

Padova ramble

One of the things we like most in our travels is connecting with locals and trying to experience life as they do.  In Italy we are very lucky to have some very dear friends that we have known for nearly 20 years.  They have lived in the city of Padova for most of their lives.  Donatella  and Ruggero have the connections and knowledge that only a local can have.  Another of our favorite things to do is wander the streets of a strange city and attempt to discover its' essence.  We especially treasure those times when we can couple a local's knowledge of a city with our explorations.  Our recent walk through the old city of Padova reminded us of why we travel; a chance to experience cultures different from our own, a chance to live life as locals do, a chance to experience "la bella vita".

We walk down a narrow quiet side street flanked by thousand year old buildings.  We enter a tree shaded cobbled square in the center of the University of Padova.  Founded in 1222, it was the academic home of Copernicus  and Galileo.   

University Square

We wander through ancient streets to a marketplace that has been in continuous operation for hundreds of years.  Sadly some of the market is full of cheap goods from China, but much of it is as it has been for a long time.  We walk through the fruit and vegetable section and see a bounty of produce from all over Italy.  Giant tomatoes compete for our attention with many items we rarely see in America.  Great bins are filled with mushrooms of every description and perfect fruits that give off the aroma of tree ripened wonder.

Tomatoes the size of cantelopes

  We walk through a long arcade past rows of giant hams (prosciutto crudo) swinging on hooks from the ceiling.  Hundreds of varieties of cheeses are side by side with salamis, cappricola and mortadella. As we walk, Ruggero shares his wealth of arcane knowledge.  On one corner he points out a stone strip embedded in the wall.  It is about the length and breadth of an arm.  Ruggero tells us that this was once the textile market and the embedded stone was the measuring unit for a length of cloth (ever heard of a  cubit?)  We meander back to the square to find the first clock tower in Italy.  It is a magnificent tower with eleven signs of the Zodiac embedded its face.  Ruggero tells us that the artist who built it was not paid by the patron so the artist left out the Zodiac sign of the  deadbeat patron in protest.

Ruggero then suggests we stop for a quick espresso in the best coffee house in Padova.  We order at the counter and sit at a sidewalk table and watch the parade of people going by.  While we sip the tasty brew, Ruggero receives a phone call from his son Fede and informs us that we will meet Fede and return home in Fede’s boat along one of the canals of Padova.  Ruggero says that Venice is not the only town in this part of Italy that has canals.  Padova used to have many more, but the city fathers decided to cover most of them. 

 We soon spot Fede and his girlfriend, Roberta,  in the street and walk over to the market to buy some cheese.  Fede asks us if we like raw fish, and being  the sushi nuts that we are, we say of course.  He steps into the fish store and  places the order. While we are admiring the freshness of the fish in the case and a lonely live eel in a tank, we turn and notice Fede and Roberta have disappeared. So we stand in the fish shop for a few minutes and watch the fish monger prepare some fresh sweet shrimp and and thinly sliced tuna.  Just about the time the fish is ready, Fede and Roberta return with glasses of crisp sparkling Prosseco.    We toast and start to eat the fish.   We squirt a little fresh lemon on on the shrimp and grab them by the head and suck the tails out of the shell.  The word succulent was invented to describe this experience.  The tuna is sliced paper thin and we grab it with tiny forks and it practically melts in our mouths; the equal of any sashimi I have ever eaten.

We savor the fish and wine but all too soon it is gone, so we start off down more narrow streets.  I look up admiring the architecture.  Ornate cornices spring from the tops of the two story buildings.  Here and there we see a bust or a plaque. Occasionally, I spot the remains of ancient frescoes crumbling from the facades. 

After a short walk we arrive at the canal.  The gate is locked so we climb over and go down a short flight of stairs to Fede’s boat.  I joke with Fede that he should have the key.  He quickly responds with a smile that  he does, but it is more interesting to climb over the gate.  It is a small motor boat that he built four years ago, but sadly it is in a state of disrepair having endured four years on the canal uncovered. He apologizes for its condition, but claims he has had no time to maintain it.   It is still seaworthy (despite some small plants growing up through the decking). The motor started easily so we put-putt down the canal to Fede’s house. 

The canal is a lazy green river with trees growing up and over the canal. It is a jungle river experience in the middle of the major metropolis of Padova.  After a few minutes we arrive at Fede’s house. He gives us after a quick tour, and then Ruggero borrows his car to return to our Italian home.

Find the missing Zodiac sign

Debbie loves dogs

Fede and his boat

Fede and Roberta share a quiet moment on the canal

Galileo's observation tower

La casa di Fedi

If this is Tuesday, it must be Denmark, Germany, Austria and Italy

Regular readers of the blog know that we are not leisurely travelers.  We cover a lot of ground in our trips driven by the curiosity about what is around the next bend.  Moving constantly as we do, our travels are truly about the journey, not just the destination.

We returned from Iceland on the ferry that connects Seydisfjourdur in the east of Iceland to Hirshals at the very northern tip of Denmark.  After three days of sitting idle, we had no trouble getting started (both us and the van).  We rolled off the ferry and zoomed off down through Denmark.  We dropped our problematic van and exchanged it for a sporty little Renault Clio.  I guess there is something about this trip, as Deb’s brother Michael wagged; French diesel  vehicles.  However, the Clio is brand new and quite fun to drive and does not spew clouds of smoke.

After a quick clean out of the camper we loved to hate we were off.  I downshifted onto the ramp happily noticing that there was no puff of blue smoke and we were soon speeding along at 120 kilometers per hour down the expressway.  After a month in the lumbering old van, and now much lower to the ground, it felt like we were going 120 miles per hour. 

I set the navigation in the car and noted that it was 1100 miles to Padova,  I thought with a little luck, light traffic and the high speeds of the German Autobahn we could make it in two days even though it was afternoon by the time we got on the road.

The trip down through Denmark was uneventful and we continually marveled at the trees.  This was not because the trees were special,  but just that Iceland was as devoid of trees as the California desert.  There was not much to keep us entertained other than the backlit huge cumulus clouds in the clear blue sky. 

Within a few hours we crossed the border into Germany (which was barely noticeable in the modern EU).  However, there was a fairly major change in road manners.  Even though going 120kph, suddenly I felt like I was standing still as cars rocketed past me going well in excess of 100mph by my estimation.  Even though the speed limit was only 130kph, I realized that this seemed to be only a suggestion.  So, I put pedal to the metal and was soon cruising along at about 140kph (about 87mph) and still felt like I was not going very fast in comparison to much of the other traffic on the road.  

At 140kph, the kilometers unwound like the altimeter of a diving plane and we found ourselves deep into Germany late in the day and, after some dithering on the internet, we found a hotel for the night the old fashioned way, by driving up to the first place we saw.  It fit the budget and our requirements of clean, relatively quiet and nothing moving in the room other than ourselves.  It turned out to be a charming little hotel and after a restful night and a very nice included breakfast we were on our way again.

We zoomed past Frankfurt and skirted Munich in the rain.  Then, in the late afternoon, just as we entered Austria the clouds started to lift revealing our first glimpse of the Alps.  After miles and miles of flat land followed by rolling foothills,  the first views of the Alps through the mist was quite dramatic.  The granitic spires rose out of tree cloaked hillsides interspersed with vivid green meadows.  Castles seemed to spring from rocky outcroppings.  The road wound through a river valley that splits the Alps from north to south.  The transit took a few hours and as the sun was setting in brilliant orange flashes through the clouds, we  rolled out onto the Veneto plain near Verona and in another hour arrived in Padova to be welcomed by our good friends Ruggero and Donatella.

We had not seen them since Nico’s wedding (their son and, as we fondly call him, our Italian son) we had a lot of happy catching up to do.  After a little  Prosecco, a lot of Cabernet Franc, a “light supper”  of antipasto, soup, and Mackerel  in pesto sauce we tumbled into bed exhausted after our two day, four country dash.

Ruggero prepping lunch