Safari, So Good

Early the next morning, we escaped Zurich’s clinical confines for sub-Saharan Africa. A seven-hour hour flight, with a brief stopover in Nairobi, delivered us to an entirely new world. As we made our way into Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania’s capital city, we watched the sun rapidly set over rolling savannah dotted with acacia trees. After strolling past several smiling airport employees (we weren’t in Switzerland anymore), we proceeded to procure a Tanzanian arrival visa, clear customs and collect our luggage. Outside baggage claim, a friendly representative from Conservation Corporation Africa met us (albeit with the wrong name on his placard) to whisk us to our hotel.

Our twenty-minute night-time car journey gave us scant opportunity to survey the sprawl of Dar Es Salaam (meaning House of Peace in Arabic). Nevertheless, in the dark, the city resembled a miniature and much less congested version of Bombay. When the car pulled up to the Kilimanjaro Kempinski – an extraordinarily reasonably-priced swanky five-star hotel fronted by the Indian Ocean – we quickly checked in and made our way to our room. Within minutes, we were upstairs relaxing in our well-appointed room surfing the internet with the flat-screen television in the background tuned to American programming.

Early the next morning, we commenced an exhaustive journey to Ngorongoro Crater in the northeastern corner of the country. We boarded a tiny ten-seater puddle-jumper at Dar Es Salaam’s domestic airport and proceeded to make pitstops at the vivid beach island of Zanzibar (a Tanzanian protectorate) and the outfitter town of Arusha before changing planes to continue on to Manyara where we landed on an unpaved, dirt airstrip quite literally in the middle of nowhere. While waiting in Arusha, we met two friendly fellow guests, Dot and Jim, an adventurous couple from Philadelphia on their second safari vacation in two years.

After deplaning at Manyara, we were left with a two-hour ride through red soil plains and dense foliage into the actual crater, which was formed 5,000 years ago when a massive mountain (larger than Kilimanjaro) erupted and then collapsed within itself. The resulting crater (technically a caldera) became a self-contained wildlife preserve hosting an ecosystem of life attracted to its nutrient-rich soil. As a result, Ngorongoro did not feature a massive animal migration like most other wildlife-rich areas in sub-Saharan Africa where animal sightings were much less guaranteed.

When we finally arrived at Ngorongoro Crater Lodge, we were led to a private Masai hut bathed with luxurious décor and overlooking the crater floor below. With the late afternoon approaching, we relaxed on the patio to take in the views before settling by the fireplace with a glass of sherry in hand.

In the evening, a Masai guide (responsible for protecting us from any wild buffalo attacks) led us to the main lodge building for drinks and dinner with the other guests. As we finished our main course, the entire lodge staff assembled into a long procession and began singing and dancing. We assumed that we were being regaled by the standard evening entertainment. It was only when everyone congregated at our table with chocolate cake and candles that we realized that we were being wished a happy (early) anniversary. As we speechlessly watched it unfold before us, we were simultaneously touched and profoundly embarrassed. As we left the lodge, a number of other families thoughtfully added their congratulations and best wishes.

At 6:00 a.m. the following day, we arose for a sunrise safari in Ngorongoro Crater, gingerly sneaking past a herd of water buffalo stationed just a few yards away from our front door. Even bundled into our fleece jackets and huddled into blankets in the jeep, we were surprised by the briskness of the morning. Accompanying us on the excursion was our driver, Aziza (the only female guide in all of Tanzania) as well as Dot and Jim. As our Land Cruiser descended into the crater via rough, uneven dirt roads, a thick mist enveloped the ground. A mere hour later, as the sun rose and intensified, the mist burned off to reveal an African wonderland straight out of National Geographic.

Despite rules forbidding off-road driving in Ngorongoro Crater National Park, we were still treated up close to a veritable living cocktail of the animal kingdom over the next several hours. Our sightings included hippos sleeping in the muddy riverbank with flamingos by their side, a large herd of zebras crossing the road in single file, a pair of cheetahs with a fresh kill in their jaws and a lone elephant feasting on a lunch on freshly-upturned tree branches and shoots. The clear highlight of our safari was observing a lion and lioness sleeping together in the tall grass. The hours flew by as we stood basking in the sun with our collective heads poking out of the open air roof of our 4x4. In the late morning, we finally stopped for a picnic breakfast where Aziza capably swatted away a would-be burglar (in the form of a monkey boasting extremely-colorful family jewels) to save our meal.

We finally headed back to the lodge in the afternoon, exhilarated by our time with the animals in their own habitat. After a sunny outdoor lunch on the patio of the main lodge building, we returned to our suite for a much-needed nap. By the time we awoke, dinner time beckoned, and we made our way to the lodge to compare animal sightings with the other guests assembled. Returning to our room, we were heartened by the thought that we had seen Ngorogoro's full portfolio of beasts, save for the elusive tree leopard and black rhino.

A Swiss Miss

Our return flight from Prague brought us to Zurich Airport for the third and mercifully final time in two months. We had originally planned to spend a couple of days in Zurich with Vik’s Stanford friend Franco and his family, but we ended up missing each other after a date change was compelled by our African safari operator. Without Franco’s local guidance, we were left to our own devices in the Swiss hub, a circumstance which ended up yielding mixed results. After collecting our bags promptly before noon, we made our way expectantly to the ticketing desk for SAS (the only airline in Zurich with the facilities to issue United tickets). Having being previously assured by United that the reissuing of our stolen around-the-world tickets would be a mere formality, we were a bit dubious. To our credit, we left ourselves several extra hours just in case we encountered any obstacles. With that being said, nothing could have prepared us for the ordeal we were about to endure. As we strode up to the SAS desk, we were immediately cast aside as an annoyance by the aloof, raven-haired woman situated behind the desk ostensibly employed to assist customers. The situation quickly went from bad to worse when our case was referred to one squeaky-pitched Rene Burger, who quickly acquitted himself as the most obnoxious and insufferable Rene of all time (easily eclipsing Rene Auberjonois, “Clayton” of Benson fame). Rene’s contemptuous nature had clearly been honed with years of practice. He first refused to reissue tickets without first seeing the originals. When we pointed out the rather obvious fact that the tickets were not in our possession (and thus required replacement), he demanded to see a police report. In the next fifteen minutes, we labored to explain that we had been through all of this on the phone with United already and simply needed the tickets reissued. Rene proceeded to imperiously pull up our reservation record, confer with some nameless European contacts on the phone and finally declare that he would not ticket us because he considered our reservation to be “fishy.” When we would not relent, he decided that he could only issue a ticket taking us directly to Tanzania and then directly back to the U..S. (truncating our itinerary of stops in South Africa, Senegal and Portugal). Shocked and more than just a bit dismayed, we were compelled to pull out our computer to place a VOIP call United’s woeful customer service back in the U.S. (and at 6 a.m. local time). Minutes soon dragged on into eternity. When we finally engaged a helpful service manager some time later, Rene was eavesdropping on our conversation. Things soon went from bad to worse. When Vik relayed to the disbelieving United rep that an SAS employee was refusing to help us, Rene started yelling. He threatened to call the police and have Vik prosecuted for slander. As if on cue, the call with United disconnected. With the afternoon hours quickly evaporating and our hopes of completing the around-the-world journey evaporating, Kaberi suggested that we employ a division of labor. She remained before Rene to concurrently stroke his ego and plead our case while Vik disappeared to an adjacent terminal to reconnect with United. Over the next two hours, Kaberi managed to attract the attention of Zurich Airport’s lone United employee to intercede on our behalf. Meanwhile, Vik learned from United that several legs of our journey were in hidden fields that SAS could not see. The lackadaisical United rep suggested that we make our way to Frankfurt (some 200 miles away) to have our reservation reticketed. After another hour had elapsed, fate had taken a friendly turn in our direction. Someone in SAS’ back office had managed to pull up our full travel record. Instead of apologizing to us for his mistake, Rene proceeded to lecture us for not having better documentation. After paying a reissuing fee and an additional (and unwarranted) change fee for good measure, Rene finally printed out our tickets. As he flashed us an oily smile, it took all of our collective willpower not to punch him in the face. Instead, we thanked him politely and walked away. With our paper tickets now securely in our hands, we resolved to make the most of or afternoon in Zurich. Using the city’s impressive and comprehensive public transportation system, we made our way by train and then bus to our hotel in the city center. After briefly settling into our tiny-but-expensive hotel room (for which we paid a premium not to have air conditioning, a decent television or a waterproof shower door), we forlornly headed to the Zurich waterfront via city tram. Rousing our spirits, Kaberi led us on a walking tour of the town beginning from the magnificent lakefront. As we made our way along the river, we encountered the Fraumunster church housing the famed Chagall stained glass choir windows and St. Peter's Church boasting the largest clock face in Europe. In the evening, we ventured fifteen minutes from the hotel past Zurich’s red light district to a lively street bursting with nightlife. On the recommendation of one of the hotel’s front desk staffmembers, we stopped at Yosef for an open-air dinner of tapas-sized epicurean delights. As we toasted, we realized to our surprise that we had managed to end the day on a pleasant note after a remarkably-miserable start. We also hoped that we had fulfilled our quota of dealings with smallminded and meanspirited European airline employees.

Prague-ressive

After passage on three different airplanes – from Oslo to London to Zurich and finally to Prague – we arrived in the Czech Republic in the early evening running on mere fumes. We had made our way to the doorstep of eastern Europe to meet up with Kaberi’s Carletonbuddy, Kottom. Our last visit to Prague four years prior for Kottom’s wedding remained a sufficiently-intoxicated blur in our memories that we both made our way out of baggage claims with more than tangential concern for our kidneys.
As we entered the arrivals hall, we found Kottom, his wife Petra and their two-year old daughter Ema waiting to welcome us to Prague, although, truth be told, Ema was more captivated by her ice cream cone than by the two weary strangers standing before her. The five of us proceeded to catch a bus and then a subway train into town with Kottom and Petra fearlessly wielding Ema’s stroller on escalators and crowded walkways. After navigating several of Prague’s cobblestoned lanes to drop off our luggage at our downtown apartment rental, we ventured to the nearby Therapy, a folksy local restaurant that supported recovering addicts.

We could not have chosen a better venue for catching up together. One of its most charming features was a children’s playroom in the back, offering infallible proof that the Czechs have figured out that having children does not preclude enjoying nights out on the town. Furthermore, the restaurant’s motto of “Have a drink, save a life” made us only too willing to oblige accordingly. Suffice it to say that three rounds more than paved the way for a night of spirited conversation. With the time seemingly flying by, we soon discovered to our surprise that midnight beckoned. With Ema asleep in her stroller after much time spent in the playroom, the four of us finally called it a night.

The next morning, Kottom (who had taken the day off on our behalf) and Ema picked us up at our apartment for breakfast. After dropping off several weeks of accumulated dirty clothes at a nearby mall dry cleaner (a decision only slightly less financially irresponsible than the oversight of the Big Dig) and subsequently finding a currency exchange center to procure dollars for future visa-on-arrival transactions, we wandered over to Bohemian Bagel, a popular brunch spot teeming with American accents. It started us off on a day of eating and drinking as we walked and talked our way around town, refreshing ourselves at local joint Pricny Rez for a couple of rounds and then meeting up with Petra for a late lunch at Jama before we caught the trolley back to their new condo.

After a full day of walking, we were all thrilled to spend a weeknight just relaxing at home. Kottom and Vik took the dog for a walk and picked up pizza while Kaberi, Petra and Ema hung out at home. Over authentic Italian thin crust and wine, we watched Shrek (Ema’s favorite movie) and chilled out. As midnight approached, we bade our friends farewell and returned downtown. Although our 36 hours in Prague didn’t give us nearly enough time as we would have preferred, we were glad to have had the chance to reconnect with old friends.

Fjordmongering

From London, we made our way through copious amounts of cloud cover to the northernmost destination that either of us had ever set foot upon. Touching down in Oslo, we quickly realized that Norway would be a marked contrast to our primarily-sundrenched travels to date. Our arrival was greeted by stern, overcast skies and temperatures at least an order of magnitude lower than we had experienced in recent weeks.

Our first impressions, based on Oslo Airport’s ubiquitous pale wooden tones, clean lines and friendly Asian-origin immigrations officer, invoked recollections of the U.S. Pacific Northwest. Once we emerged from the airport, however, we gained a more traditional perception of the country. We found ourselves surrounded by a host of tall, mostly-fit blonde men and women with backpacks and tow-head kids in tow (Norwegians are ranked second in the world for average height, but alas, the popular notion that everyone there looks like a model is a tad overblown).

As we waited for the train bringing us to the center of town, we were forced to unearth our long-forgotten North Face fleeces and rainjackets from the bottom of our bags. Upon arriving at Oslo’s National Theater stop a half an hour later, we quickly surveyed the ominous skies above before embarking upon a fifteen minute walk to our hotel. Ten minutes later, we were bombarded by a cold and unyielding downpour. Arriving at our hotel drenched and shivering, we had been thoroughly deterred from any imminent notions of emigrating to Scandinavia.

As we holed up in our room waiting for our shoes, socks and pants to dry out, we finalized our weeklong Norway itinerary, opting to spend the considerable majority of our stay surveying the country’s long western coastline. A few hours later, the clouds receded and we ventured into town to buy some reading material for our five consecutive nights on the Hurtigruten, a modern take on a Norwegian steamship. Our brief excursion quickly acquainted us with the strength of the Norwegian currency, the kroner.

Swimming in oil revenues (Norway is the world’s third largest oil exporter after Saudi Arabia and Russia and boasts over $280 billion in its national coffers), the entire country is essentially priced like a movie theater. Kaberi’s book purchasing was sadly limited to a mere $25 paperback copy of A Thousand Splendid Suns. Only imagining at what an Oslo restaurant meal would cost, we forlornly returned to our hotel to partake in the complementary “light supper” of soup and salad offered.

We awoke the next morning – Vik’s birthday, July 18 – to catch an early flight to Bodoe, a city located north of Oslo near the Arctic Circle. Ironically, Vik’s birthday wish had been a day of uninterrupted sleep, but what he received instead was a day of uninterrupted travel. After at an ungodly 5:00 a.m. wakeup call, we checked out of our hotel before local tram service commenced, leaving us to lug our bags during a hurried 15-minute walk to the train station. Once at the airport, we splurged on birthday breakfast muffins (delicious, but priced at a ludicrous $8 each), and bemoaned missing the free hotel breakfast.

After a 90-minute flight to Bodoe, we used the four hour layover before our connecting flight to fit in a neckstraining catnap or two. By 2:00 p.m., we had made our way via puddlejumper to Svolvaer, a picturesque town on the Lofoten islands located northwest of Bodoe. With four and a half hours to kill before the Hurtigruten docked in Svolvear, we headed straight for the largest grocery store in town (a Mega Coop) to stock up on foodstuffs in lieu of paying for the undoubtedly-exorbitant meals on the boat. A few hours later, we strolled along the docks before a stiff easterly wind forced us to seek shelter indoors. We soon discovered Bacalao, a friendly restaurant with creamy hot chocolate and free wireless internet access.

When we finally boarded the Hurtigruten, essentially a floating motel with an overzealous P.R. department, Vik spent the first hour choosing between two equally-unappealing available interior cabins on two different decks. After he finally chose the higher-situated of the two, we expeditiously unpacked our backpacks, transforming the cramped dresser drawers into our own personal pantry. While our inside cabin afforded us no views whatsoever, it did promote restful sleep by shielding us from the never-ending summer sunrays above the Arctic Circle. When we fell into an exhausted slumber at 9:30 p.m., the skies were as bright as they were six hours earlier.

Over the course of the next three days, we made our way south from the Arctic Circle to the southwestern port city of Bergen. In the process, we unhurriedly passed by green mountainscapes dotted with neat yellow, white and red cottages perched above craggly shorelines. Our days invariably consisted of staking an early claim to a windowside table in the ship’s observation lounge where we would read, journal and blog prolifically (at one point, even catching up to real-time with our posts). Kaberi kept her camera at her side and, when the scenery warranted, would sprint outside to snap away in the face of a consistent gust.

Highlights of the journey included a marker designating the Arctic Circle crossing point and Torghatten, a striking mountain with a 480-foot long doughnut hole in its center. For the first thirty hours of the trip, overcast skies muted the natural beauty of the landscape. When we docked at the small coastal town of Rovik, however, a full sweeping rainbow leaped out of the mist. The weather continued to improve as we made our way further south toward the fjord region. By the time we reached Bergen, the bright sunshine and mild breeze had lured us outdoors to absorb the sights from the ship’s forward lounge and attached outdoor deck. We proceeded to spend most of our time tracking the sun’s progress until it began to play hide-and-seek behind the mountains during its 11:30 p.m. descent.

Disembarking at Bergen, Norway’s second-largest city, we made our way into town to locate a bookstore selling the final Harry Potter book, which had been officially released earlier that day. After securing our $36 copy, we walked to the undistinctive fish market and then around the cobblestoned city center until it was time to reboard the ship for our two-night voyage to Trondheim, Norway’s third-largest city. For this journey, we had fortunately secured an exterior cabin for the slightly-different northward route through the fjords. The next day, at noon, we arrived at the World Heritage-designated Geiranger and Storfjorden fjords. We alternated between imbibing the magnificent fjord views and reading the Deathly Hallows furiously; by the time we had docked the next morning, we each had managed to finish the book.

During our voyage, we enjoyed the daily ritual of stopping in different ports of call as a way of breaking up the monotony of the journey. We would take in the atmosphere of a different town while fervently searching for a café serving hot coffee or the nearest grocery store. Our favorite stop was at Molde, just north of the fjords, where an annual jazz festival coincided with our visit. We enjoyed warm, freshly-grilled street food while reveling in the ambient outdoor music. We also relished our last day, which was spent in Trondheim, an atmospheric and picturesque town where we wandered under sunny skies and amidst ubiquitous St. Olaf monuments.

While we certainly could not complain about the relaxing pace of five days aboard the Hurtigruten, the atmosphere on board was a significant departure from our time on the Yangtze River in China. We sorely missed the jovial and funloving camaraderie of that voyage which stood in stark contrast to the relative absence of warmth from the unsmiling European tourists onboard with us. Nevertheless, Norway’s distinctive coastal beauty was worth seeing. After returning to Oslo, we looked forward to our onward journey to Prague, where we hoped to once again bask in the warmth of friends and abundant sunshine.

British Invasion

After an exhaustive search for direct flights to Oslo from Sofia or the closest proximate airports of Belgrade, Serbia, Bucharest, Romania or Thessalonki, Greece yielded no viable options, we chose to raid Kaberi’s frequent flier balance and take a British Airways flight connecting through London. Opting for an overnight stopover at Heathrow, we gained the added benefit of spending an evening with Kaberi’s cousin Reshmi and her husband Pratip. After touching down at Heathrow, we were forced to endure the human parking lot known as U.K. immigration and the condescension of a drunk-with-power British immigration officer (a wanker of the highest order) who demanded written proof of onward passage from the U.K. (the first time this was required anywhere during our travels) apparently because there is an epidemic of American citizens illegally setting up residence in England in a desperate quest to have their buying power cut in half. After muttering under our breath about the infernal and pompous imperialists, we gratefully met Reshmi and Pratip in the arrivals hall. Over cups of tea, and then glasses of scotch, we spent a cozy afternoon together, exchanging stories about life in England and from our travels. Reshmi’s and Pratip’s smart apartment was soon transformed into a Bengali communications hub. With the phone seemingly ringing continuously, we fielded calls in sequence from Reshmi’s parents (the beloved Mejos) from Delhi, Kaberi’s and Reshmi’s cousin Amit (who we spent two days with us in Italy a few weeks back) from New York, Kaberi’s parents from Chicago and Kaberi’s and Reshmi’s cousin Soma from California. Despite our guilt over monopolizing the phone, we had to admit that it felt fabulous to be surrounded by family near and far. As the evening unfolded, we partook in a home-cooked Bengali meal and then indulged in wonderfully-accessible English language television programming. With the day having flown by, we promised to try and return before the end of our globetrotting journey before turning in for the night. Early the next morning, Reshmi and Pratip graciously drove us back to Heathrow. After being dropped off at Terminal 1 (typically the origin of British Airways’ inter-European flights), we ruefully learned that our Oslo flight departed from the distant Terminal 4 (typically the province of long-haul flights). Racing outside to catch Reshmi and Pratip in the nick of time, we finagled a ride to the outlying terminal some several miles away. After a second round of good-byes, we bid Reshmi and Pratip farewell, leaving them to likely regret extending an invitation to us to wreak havoc on their lives for yet another weekend.

Plush Leather Sofia

From the hustle and bustle of Rome, a hot pink plane operated by WizzAir (a Hungarian based discount carrier) brought us to the relative tranquility of Sofia, in southwestern Bulgaria. While we were thrilled to have escaped the tourist hordes descending upon central Italy in mid-July, we didn’t quite know what to expect from Bulgaria, a country whose geographic and historical contours had largely eluded our consciousness. After deplaning and making our way to a grim terminal with stern black and white signs brandishing a Russian-looking script, our expectations began to be colored with visions of a spartan, post-communist land of stolid suffering and hard drinking.

Having had to check luggage in Rome (the invariable result of flying a budget airline) our mutual apprehension mounted as the crowd of waiting passengers from our plane thinned to a half dozen or so with nary a sign of Kaberi’s conspicuous red and black rolling backpack. Only when her mobile repository of newly-purchased clothing and battle-tested toiletries emerged as the very last piece off the conveyor belt did we both finally exhale.

Exiting baggage claim for a modest arrivals hall, our hopes of a grand reunion were dashed upon discovering that Vik’s Stanford friend Victor was nowhere to be seen. Fifteen minutes later, after Vik had conferred with a terse airport desk clerk and then brazenly commandeered the use of a mild-mannered stranger’s cellphone for our own purposes, Victor appeared as if straight out of a photo shoot bearing wavy-length hair and a khaki linen suit. To our chagrin, Victor had been waiting for us at Sofia’s modern and sophisticated new terminal a few kilometers away, oblivious to the meager location of WizzAir’s Bulgarian digs. After dispensing European kisses for Kaberi and a manly hug for Vik, Victor loaded our bags into a sporty red Alfa Romero sedan and sped off like a man in search of the nearest facilities.

After a twenty-minute straight shot past a Kodak factory, an AIG branch office and several cellphone shops, we found ourselves smack dab in the center of historic Sofia. Making our way around the striking King’s Palace (now the seat of the Bulgarian parliament) and the largest orthodox church in the country, we quickly arrived at Victor’s prime location apartment on the top floor of a Communist era building. Once the preferred haunt of Bulgaria’s communist intellectual class, the building boasted busts of artists and writers on its walls (depicting several famous former residents) as well as the requisite busy-body neighbor on hand to chide us for loading more than two people on to the elevator.

Our appreciation for the apartment’s trendy location only grew with time. We soon proceeded to take a quick tour of the neighborhood, stopping to admire a photographic exhibit in an adjacent park brimming with Japanese tourists. After enjoying a jolt of caffeine at a Starbucks look-alike within a stone’s throw of our starting point, we commenced an uptempo night on the town with Victor and his girlfriend Lily. We began with dinner at the nearby VinoBar, a chic restaurant opened by the wife of the Swiss ambassador, where the different dishes we shared were complemented by Victor’s selection of superb, homegrown Bulgarian wines.

Our post-dinner exploits involved an ample dose of bar-hopping, beginning with drinks at the aptly-named neighborhood nightspot, By The Way, continuing with shots at a typically-European techno dance club (where Vik’s worn cargo pants actually represented fashionable attire) and culminating with a drink at an outdoor beer garden called Toba&co. By the time we finally called it a night, it was just past three in the morning. By our undiscriminating standards, Sofia’s nightlife appeared to compare favorably with virtually any other major city we had visited, save for New York or London.

The following day proved to be a bit more low-key after we slept in until noon. Our afternoon began with lunch at the hip brunch spot Moto where Vik’s inclination to stay indoors to listen to buoyant lounge music was trumped by the group’s desire to sit outdoors to bask in sunshine. Afterward, we took a winding, scenic drive through the Balkan Mountains to the quaint Bulgarian village of Kopripischtitsa (try saying that five times fast). Rolling brown hillsides and dense green forests eventually receded to reveal a gathering of traditional wooden cottages arranged around a meandering brook and narrow lanes hewn from assorted local stones.

The four of us took the opportunity to wander through an 1850’s home-turned-museum before patronizing a local restaurant to sample traditional Bulgarian dishes like a Shopska salad and cucumber yoghurt soup. While we relished the cool, rural air, we made a point of getting back on the road by 6:00 p.m. in order to ensure that we wouldn’t miss the 7:30 p.m. English language showing of the newly-released movie Harry Potter back in Sofia. Our downtempo day then concluded with a late dinner at Egur, Egur, a local Armenian restaurant.

After a second consecutive late wakeup (Kaberi included!), we enjoyed a late Sunday brunch at a prominent Sofia Irish bar. Following brunch, we visited in turn the Museum of Foreign Art (for a surreal viewing of several Burmese and Indian pieces), the large Cathedral (where Victor, in a prior life as a tour guide, teased visitors with the claim that the 120-ton chandelier had only fallen twice) and an antique flea market where items on offer ranged from old cameras and fake watches to Nazi and communist memorabilia. After Victor negotiated capably on our behalf, we returned home with what we thought was an early-model Leica camera for Kaberi’s antique camera collection (Vik originally had designs on initiating a lucrative eBay transaction). Only upon perusing the Internet later that afternoon did we learn that we had likely purchased a well-executed Russian fake.

Our last night in town proved to be a lovely conclusion to our stay. Victor prepared a home-cooked traditional Bulgarian dinner over which we animatedly chatted until midnight. Looking back on our visit to Bulgaria, it was clear that our time on the ground here with our hip local host had largely overturned our pre-conceived notions of contemporary life in a post-Communist country.

La Dolce Vita

With only two days remaining in Italy before our departing flight to Bulgaria, we opted to make brief one-day visits to Genoa, the hometown of Christopher Columbus, and Rome. A three-hour plus train ride from Florence conveyed us past the stunning cliffs of Cinque Terra and the inviting beaches of the Italian Riviera before concluding in Italy’s northwestern city of Genoa. A crowded local bus ride from the Brignole railway station eventually delivered us to our upwardly-aspiring business hotel on the eastern outskirts of the city. We unceremoniously dropped off our luggage before catching the same local bus back to the city center. We soon alighted on Via XX Septembre where Kaberi excitedly located the red neon sign of H&M peaking out from behind Piazza de Ferrari. While Vik waited patiently, Kaberi replenished her threadbare wardrobe with much needed lightweight wear. From the store, we began a leisurely meandering of the narrow streets and alleys near the old port, content to happenstance upon a number of prominent churches (conspicuously marking the territory borders of long ago ruling clans). After strolling briskly through the underwhelming port area and seedy nearby red light district, we finally managed to locate a Rough Guide-recommended dinner spot. The complementary glass of sparkling white wine offered as soon as we were seated served as a harbinger of the excellent meal to come, though we were both slightly disappointed to learn that there were three sister locations in Manhattan. Upon finishing our dinner, we weaved our way through the cobweb of streets before catching the bus back to our hotel. Although Genoa, with its charming Baroque edifices and seaside nooks, easily warranted a longer visit, our one-day visit at least gave us an introductory appreciation of the city’s offerings. The next morning, after harried transfers involving three separate buses, we arrived at Genoa airport for a scheduled morning flight to Rome. While waiting in the departure lounge, we caught a brief example of the famed Italian indulgence of one of its youngest native sons. We witnessed a tantrum – involving wailing, punchthrowing and carpetclinging – that would have made John McEnroe blush. As punishment for his indiscretions, the peacedisturber in question received separate affectionate embraces from each of his parents.  Upon arriving in Rome, we hopped on the Leonardo Express train to Termini station before walking a few blocks north to our boutique hotel. After settling in, we walked down the block to Via Veneto, the street immortalized by Fellini in La Dolce Vita. Continuing on, we arrived first at the Spanish Steps which offering distant views of St. Peter’s Basilica and then Trevi fountain where we congregated near the pools with 20,000 of our closest American friends. With a few short afternoon hours to see Rome in all of its glory, we briefly contemplated boarding one of the city’s conspicuous double-decker tourist buses before deciding otherwise. In the evening, we dined with Vik’s Stanford friend Antonio at Al Moro, a restaurant of his choosing situated near Trevi fountain. Antonio ordered for us a number of house specialties accompanied by a red wine from Campagna, his native region of Italy. With the benefit of local market knowledge, we enjoyed spectacular and flavorful dishes that would have ordinarily eluded our reach. Vik and Antonio caught up on life in general, shared news of several classmates and reminisced about past Stanford antics (Antonio promised to e-mail Kaberi a Halloween picture showing her husband and Antonio as part of a group of five men dressed as “unofficial” Stanford cheerleaders; Vik still holds out hope that the picture has been irretrievably misplaced). The next morning, rejuvenated and in good spirits, we caught a cab to Ciampino airport for our early afternoon flight to Sofia, Bulgaria. Finding a second straight day of brilliant blue skies, we lamented our decision not to board one of the tourist buses the day before. To Kaberi, in particular, it seemed a shame that Vik had seen so little of Rome. As if on cue, our taxi driver took a scenic route that brought us alongside the Colosseum and Roman ruins. Hardly able to contain our enthusiasm, we struggled to keep up with the sights speeding past one window or another. As the city landmarks finally faded from view, Vik flashed a grin and declared that he had just seen Rome at exactly the right speed.

Reach Out And Tuscany

Faced with an overwhelming number of subsequent Italian destinations, we settled on Florence, one of Kaberi’s favorite cities. Having visited twice before with her parents, Kaberi thought it only appropriate that she revisit the romantic Tuscan capital with Vik.

We arrived in Florence just past ten at night after first flying to Rome, catching a connecting flight to Pisa, waiting for an evasive toiletries bag and then taking a night bus to the city center. Vik had reserved a room at an upscale guesthouse a few blocks away from the city’s Santa Maria Novella train station, and the two of us trudged with luggage in tow searching vainly for 18 Via della Strada. Florence’s confusing address system (with outdated numbers flanking current ones) and a lack of guesthouse signage conspired to lead us past our intended destination none the wiser.

Once we finally found our lodging, we immediately appreciated its elusiveness. As a small, authentic home with only ten uniquely-decorated rooms, Casa Howard was far from a run of the mill hotel. On our first night, we stayed in the Library bedroom, with floor to ceiling books in the sleeping area and original mosaic tiles on the bathroom floor. We spent the remainder of our stay in the owner’s suite, boasting an eclectic, New York loft feel in the living and bedroom areas in sharp contrast to the red claw-foot tub and chandelier in the bathroom. Serving as a welcome respite from Florence’s heat and crowds, the guesthouse (save for spotty Internet access) was a perfect oasis.

With our accommodations situated near the Santa Maria Novella, we opted to make the house of worship our first stop on the following day. After appreciating its architecture, interior frescoes and displayed artwork, we commenced a walking tour of the entire city. We began by admiring the multi-colored exterior of the Duomo before moving on to the Piazza della Signoria and ending at the various shops of the Ponte Vecchio. With Vik content to appreciate Florence’s architecture from the outside, Kaberi was profoundly thankful that she had toured the requisite sights on previous visits with her customary rigor. After a full day, we finally conceded defeat when our aching feet demanded rest and our ears craved sanctuary from the assault of yet another indiscreet American accent.

The next morning, we discovered that we were staying literally next door to one of Concierge.com’s consummate insider spots, a perfume and herbal remedy purveyor founded by Dominican monks. After stopping to make a small purchase or two, we made our way to a recommended nearby trattoria with traditional, shared cafeteria-style tables. Underwhelmed by the offerings, including the recommended signature dish, we began to question the eatery’s authenticity, especially after noticing several American tourists ordering identically and spying a framed check signed by Steven Spielberg on the wall.

In the interest of venturing off the beaten path (not an easy feat for Florence in July), we opted for the city’s newly opened Museo Nazionale Alinari della Fotografia. The museum reinforced Kaberi’s lifelong ambition to be a National Geographic photographer while commanding Vik’s undivided attention for the next several hours (he pronounced it his favorite venue in Florence). The exhibits led us through the history of photography while providing mesmerizing old photographs of some of the stops on our trip (including one of the Gaza pyramids from 1851). Vik marveled at a collection of historical photos that included an image of Mussolini getting arrested at a rally in the 1920s. Meanwhile, Kaberi was enthralled by an exhibit depicting the development of the camera, particularly because her dad had taught her on one of the models now carefully displayed behind protective glass.

In the evening, unable to choose between a number of intriguing options, we opted to try as many as possible. We ventured south for a first course on the riverfront at Beccofino, then crossed back over the bride to sample wine at Cantinetta Antinori before ending at Carabe for gelato. As we made our way back to the hotel, we congratulated ourselves for our much-improved navigational abilities after only two days in town.

On our last full day in Florence, we fortified ourselves with cappuccino, hot chocolate and chocolate croissants at Piazza della Signoria’s Rivoire, a converted chocolate factory. From the café, we promptly positioned ourselves in line for our 9:30 a.m. admission to the Uffizi. We made our way through the collection with the help of the museum’s audioguide. Upon completion, Vik pronounced that the Florentine Renaissance was his favorite collection, a bold statement from someone who had never even heard of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus or Primavera a few hours prior.

From the Uffizi, Kaberi led us across the river to il Torchino, an artisan paper store removed from the touristed paths, where she ordered custom-made photo albums to hold the thousands of photographs taken during our travels. With each dwarfing in size our wedding album, Kaberi fully expects to scare off any prospective viewers.We doubled back across the river to Trattoria Cibreo, an authentic Tuscan trattoria in an out-of-the-way location. After a mile-long trek, we were rewarded with a rustic meal surpassing any other we had in Italy. Sufficiently motivated, we each ordered a primi and secundi course to savor the chef’s culinary talents. After the satisfying meal, we stopped at the Santa Croce Church to see Michelangelo’s, Galileo’s and Machiavelli’s tombs and Dante’s memorial. We never contemplated so many eminent historical figures being buried in the same building.

The piece de la resistance of our visit to Florence was a Michelin three star-rated meal at Enoteca Pinchiorri, for an early celebration of Vik’s birthday. After Kaberi had made the reservations, Vik begrudgingly agreed to oblige her despite learning that all male patrons of the restaurant were required to wear a blazer. In a testament to Italian hospitality and graciousness, the restaurant staff scarcely blinked when Vik arrived in a blue polyester blend button-down shirt, well-worn convertible khaki cargo pants and hardly mint-condition brown walking shoes. With the utterly sublime nine-course meal leaving no room in the budget for an extravagant bottle of wine, we toasted in spirit to a perfect visit to Florence.

“Hey, You With The Tooth, Smile Big”

From Palermo, we caught the airport shuttle in order to rendezvous with Reegz, a long-time hometown buddy of Vik’s and one of his groomsmen. Brussels-based Reegz and his wife Elizabeth were meeting up with us for a one-week vacation in Sicily. After locating each other in Palermo Airport’s arrivals hall, we shared stories while waiting in an interminable line at the EasyCar rental counter. When we finally started the ignition to drive off the lot two hours later, we discovered that our car had barely an eighth of a tank of gas. Instead of waiting another two hours for a fully-fueled vehicle, we opted to endure a nerve-racking gas station search from the highway while the car’s orange gas light mocked us from the dashboard.

Once our chariot was sufficiently fueled, Reegz (the appointed chauffeur for the week) drove us 90 minutes west to the seaside resort town of Cefalu, where we had rented a furnished, three-bedroom villa for the week. After collecting the keys from the villa’s animated rental manager, we quickly found our way to our new digs. Walking through the front door, we were struck dumbfounded both by the magnificent wraparound views of the Tyrrhenian Sea from the villa’s rear patio and by the laughably-tasteless furnishings filling every square inch of the interior. Taking in the tacky kitsch from around the world, much of it seen before on street corners from the various destinations of our trip, Vik silently celebrated Kaberi’s restraint and good taste.

Despite the failings of its interior decorator, the villa proved perfectly suited for two couples with its separate bedrooms, private bathrooms, thoroughly-windowed central living and dining areas and multiple, open air terraces. We also discovered that we had access (down a winding 107 steps) to our own private beach. When Elizabeth arrived the following day, she whipped the gaudy tablecloth off of the dining room table and set up lounge chairs on the terrace. With our sensory overload sufficiently diminished, we settled into the villa to fully enjoy our surroundings.

We soon found that Cefalu was an easy town to explore. Making our way to the old city center, we quickly located such important landmarks as a homemade gelateria serving Kaberi-pleasing dark chocolate/pistachio and fig/melon combos and a modest coffee house providing Reegz’s morning espresso, Elizabeth’s cappuccino and Kaberi’s sinful caffe de crema. In deference to his wife, Vik (a staunch non-coffee drinker) had to pretend to order a demitasse cup for himself so that Kaberi could enjoy it surreptitiously. By the end of the week, however, the much-amused shopowner overlooked Italy’s unwritten one-coffee-per-person rule and served Kaberi her preferred second cup directly.

During the week, in the interest of taking full advantage of our accommodations, we became regulars at the nearby local supermarkets. We soon began finding difficulty securing refrigerator storage space for our voluminous purchases. Early in the week, we prepared an Italian feast featuring a mouthwatering caprese salad and Elizabeth’s home-made red sauce recipe. Midweek, the four of us, as dutiful Americans, joyfully fired up the outdoor grill to commemorate the 4th of July with an obligatory barbecue and a somewhat-less-patriotic puff on a Cuban. With the generous amount of rations on hand, the duration of our respective hunger or thirst during the week invariably extended only as long as the time it took to walk to the kitchen.

Despite the week’s clear focus on eating and lounging, we still found time to enjoy a number of adventures on the island. On our second day in Cefalu, after unwittingly driving down an unmarked pedestrian beach access road, we found ourselves trapped between an unforgiving embankment and a deserted car boasting a flat rear tire. After locating the car’s remorseless owner and directing Reegz to perform a nervewracking 52-point turn, we returned home in time to enjoy a spectacular Sicilian sunset.

A few days later, we took a circuitous route to the old town of Monreale and its celebrated church. On the way back, we drove out of our way in search of a rural Michelin 1-star restaurant heralded on a fellow traveler’s website. After a bit of backtracking, we eventually discovered that the eating establishment we were seeking had been replaced by a pizzeria (Kaberi and Elizabeth were not especially impressed with their husbands’ ensuing boasts about the subsequent monetary savings).

Our week also included other memorable road trips. One evening, we made our way up treacherous heights on Cefalu’s outskirts to yet another non-existent eatery before finally finding an excellent restaurant in plain sight on Cefalu’s main drag. Another day, we drove to Sicily’s northeastern quadrant for excursions to a fuming Mt. Etna, a roadside restaurant with dentally-challenged proprietors (one of whom served as the inspiration for the title of this post) and the upscale and panoramic resort town of Taormina.

On our last full day on the island, we journeyed to the southern coast to visit the impressive World Heritage recognized Greek ruins at Agrijento. Shamelessly snoozing in the back seats, Kaberi and Vik left the driving and navigating of Sicily’s counterintuitive roads to a magnanimous and perseverant Reegz and Elizabeth whose Sicilian vacation perhaps involved a bit less relaxation that they had been expecting. Our friends’ driving responsibilities concluded the next morning after stops at Cefalu’s own cathedral (where our visit coincided with a wedding) and Palermo’s airport. Bidding Reegz and Elizabeth a warm farewell, we could scarcely believe that our joint vacation had come to a close.