An Offer You Can Not Refuse

After Amit dropped us off at Nice Airport the next morning, we caught our discount airline flight to Palermo, the largest city on the southern Italian island of Sicily. Our descent into Palermo was among the most spectacular we have ever undertaken, with jarring volcanic peaks hovering near vivid aqua coasts. Upon landing and collecting our bags, we took an airport shuttle bus to Palermo’s central station. A 20-minte walk later, we found ourselves in front of our serviceable business hotel located in the heart of the smokestained old city, mere spitting distance from the Quattro Canti.

After dropping off our bags, Kaberi promptly whisked us out of the hotel to see the four different cathedrals located on each of the four corners of the nearby Piazza Pretoria. Afterward, we commenced a wild goose chase for the newest edition of the Rough Guide to Italy (Amit had lent us his seventh edition in case the eighth edition proved elusive). After visiting five bookstores and traipsing halfway across town, we were finally successful in locating a copy for Kaberi to add to her burgeoning guide book collection. Immediately putting the new purchase to good use, Kaberi found a place that specialized in authentic Sicilian pizzas (much to Vik’s excitement) and Sicilian red wines.

The next morning, we walked west to the massive Catedrale, a majestic, green-domed structure with a cold and sparse interior. After a quick perusal, we moved on to Porta Nuova. After a short stroll, we arrived at Palazzo dei Normanni, the former royal palace now serving as the official house of the Sicilian parliament. Despite an ongoing renovation, we were still able to admire beautiful mosaic frescos and the building’s centerpiece, a gold-painted royal chapel.

Choosing a longer return route, we took in the bustling and malodorous local wet market before deciding upon another Rough Guide recommended lunch spot nearby. Unfortunately, the small hole-in-the-wall restaurant (with us as its only lunchtime patrons) produced a decidedly-mediocre meal, the lowlight of which was an undrinkable amber-colored house wine dispensed from a water cooler. Regrouping, we walked east toward Palermo’s main commercial district to find some respectable compensatory gelato.

We then made the short walk back to our hotel. After collecting our bags, we discovered that the Internet café across the street was shuttered. Taking pity on us, the kindly front desk manager gave us access to the hotel’s office computer. In short order, we were making the best use of our time and managed to finalize our Tanzania travel arrangements four weeks hence. With an hour remaining before we were due to return to the airport to meet one of Vik’s oldest friends, we settled into plush leather lobby chairs. As Kaberi caught up in her journal, Vik (like a typical Sicilian) closed his eyes and soon began an indulgent afternoon nap.

Pesto Change-o!

After completing our tour of duty in St. Martin de l’Arcon, we returned our rental car in Montpellier (but only after dealing with the stress of a malfunctioning fuel gauge) and caught a morning train to Nice. At Nice, we jumped on an eastbound train and disembarked thirty minutes later at Ventimiglia (which translates to “20 miles”), an Italian border town where we were meeting Kaberi’s cousin Amit and his wife Chetna who were vacationing with their two young daughters, Aryana and Anika. They had rented a well-outfitted hillside apartment in Apricale, a nearby village with the well-deserved reputation as one of the most picturesque settings in Italy.

After a pleasant drive to Apricale, we embarked upon the short, but steep, walk up the hill to the apartment. Huffing and puffing, we wound up getting more of a workout than we had anticipated. A few hours later, on a walk to the town center, we found ourselves put further to shame by older townspeople (a mere two to three times our age) effortlessly navigating the steep terrain while we fought to catch our breath with each step.

Upon settling in at the apartment, we had a chance to play with three-month old Anika and were quickly enchanted by her happy-go-lucky temperament. In comparison, three-year-old Aryana bowled us over with her seemingly-boundless energy and curiosity. We found ourselves thoroughly outmatched until nap-time beckoned. Amit and Chetna fortunately had stocked the apartment with ample provisions for rebuilding one’s energy. While the kids napped, we spent the afternoon enjoying local meats and cheeses with tall glasses of Lambrusco wine and Bailey’s. After a relaxing chat, we made our way into the village for an authentic Italian meal at an outdoor terrazzo.

The next day, Amit and Kaberi hiked uphill for a coffee fix before the six of us partook in a hearty breakfast at home. Making good use of our relatively-early start to the day, we drove to a farmers market in the idyllic neighboring town of Dolceacqua to stock up on fresh, local ingredients for a pasta dinner planned for that evening. We enjoyed sampling the myriad cheese options available to us before we carefully accumulated mushroom ravioli, cheese ravioli, fresh tomatoes and apricots. Afterward, we briefly strolled up cobblestone alleys and across a prominent bridge depicted in a Monet painting. In deference to Aryana’s utter glee at hearing the local belltower toll, we good-naturedly waited until the top of the hour before continuing on our way.

From Dolceacqua, we followed the coastline across the border to Menton, a French beachside hamlet that once stood in Italian territory. We were all amused by the exploitative toll system that forced motorists to pull a ticket in Italy and pay toll to enter France 50 feet later. After securing a parking spot in the heart of town, we found an inviting spot to dine al fresco with views of the sparkling emerald and aqua Mediterranean. After lunch, we continued on to one of the only sandy (as opposed to pebbly) beaches on the French Rivera where all of us ventured into the surprisingly-cold late June surf.

On our return, we stopped in at a local Conad supermarket to augment our dinner provisions. We soon found freshly made pesto (a regional specialty), two local varietals of red wines, and a panoply of meringues and éclairs (bearing more of a French ancestry than Italian, in Kaberi’s humble opinion). After returning home to the apartment, Amit and Chetna ventured out for a drink while we babysat the girls. With Aryana down for a nap, the two of us devoted ourselves to lavishing attention on Anika. When Amit and Chetna returned, we started the dinner process, with our hosts whipping up a feast of salad and pesto ravioli accompanied by local red wines and capped off with Kaberi’s hand-selected dessert options. Both the company and the food made for a fabulous evening at home, a nice change of pace after our soporific week in southern France.

Tour de France

After an overnight stop in Madrid with Iraxci, we caught an afternoon flight to Toulouse, the French city where Airbus is headquartered. Once we touched down and made our approach to the gate, Vik was entranced by the sight of a huge, bulging, beluga whale-shaped aircraft sitting outside one of the hangars (apparently, an Airbus experimental plane). Upon setting foot in the airport, we immediately armed ourselves with a Rough Guide to Langueduc-Roussilon (a so-called underrated region of southern France lying to the west of Provence) and a detailed Michelin map of the area. After picking up our rental car, a silver, automatic-transmission Citroen C3, we began the three-hour journey north-east to the village of St. Martin de l’Arcon.

After thirty minutes on the A9 autoroute, we stopped for directions and sustenance at a rest area gas station. Here, we encountered an incredibly-personable French storeclerk who gave us advice on the routing and highlighted key milestone points on our map. On our way out, we bought fresh sandwiches that rivaled their fresh-prepared, gourmet counterparts at Au Bon Pain or Panera Bread. After getting off of the highway near the town of Beziers (which looked to be a mere 25 kilometers from our destination), we spent another 90 minutes winding through narrow, pitch-black switchback roads. After making a couple of wrong turns on the basis of subpar road signage, we finally pulled into the driveway of the cottage where we would be spending the next week, exhausted and relieved.

Our accommodations had been generously set aside for our use by its owner, a British-based friend of a friend. She had warned us in prior e-mail correspondence about the possibility of encountering a scorpion or two during our stay. Fortunately, the only scorpion present in the cottage was the 5 foot “6” inch tall one bossing Vik around. We did, however, encounter other representatives of the insect world, namely a plethora of spiders and mosquitos, which encouraged us to spend as little time in the cottage as possible.

Using the Michelin map as our compass, we explored the area’s sleepy little backwaters to our heart’s content. On our first day, we drove on picturesque roads that underlie one of the stages of the Tour de France. We slowly made our way to Beziers, stuck behind two cautious timber trucks, where Vik’s singleminded obsession with procuring a GSM sim card propelled us to a mobile store. Half an hour and 30 Euros later, we were in possession of 15 minutes of mobile talk time and Vik was finally able to enjoy the town surroundings. We walked the small streets to the main Cathedral offering beautiful views of the river bisecting the city. As we returned to our car, an open air foodgrocer near the central market caught our eye, leading to a carton of wild strawberries and a cheap bottle of local red wine accompanying us on the ride home.

The next day, we journeyed west to picturesque Carcassone, a World Heritage site that we had seen beautifully illuminated from the highway during our initial drive to the cottage. As the artistically-licensed reconstruction of a medieval castle (the domed turrets added in the restoration were not historically accurate), Carcassone was captivating from a distance, but merely a tourist trap (like Bruge in Belgium) from up close.

On our return, Kaberi, in her role as navigator, gave Vik directions to repeat the prior day's route before promptly falling asleep. Unfortunately, half an hour into her nap, Kaberi was awoken with an urgent request for assistance by a frantic Vik who had missed the correct turnoff which so happened to be the only exit for the next 50 miles. After we missed another exit which would have allowed us to retrace our route (much to Kaberi’s dismay), we once again took slow, meandering backroads home, stopping briefly at a local Champion grocery store to stock up on such necessities as After Eight chocolates and another local vintage of red wine. The alternate route allowed us to discover a local boulangerie which quickly became our source for such staples as pain chocolate, pomme beignets and pain de mie.

Later in the week, we drove through Languedoc’s lush wine country to the college town of Montpellier. After locating the train station for our own reference (we were scheduled to take a train from Montpellier to Nice later in the week), we navigated the labyrinth of streets before finally locating a parking space. A brief stroll delivered us to a reasonably-priced Internet café (in sharp contrast to a pub near the cottage that charged an obscene 5 Euros per hour for remarkably-intermittent service). At Kaberi’s insistence, we uploaded the relevant Indonesian updates to this blog (narrowing the visit to publish time lag to a mere five weeks) before dining on crepes in Montpellier’s central Place de la Comedie, a plaza overlooking the ornate, gilded Opera house. After dinner, we indulged in a “version originale” showing of Ocean’s 13 at a local cinema.

The high point of our time in southern France was getting a chance to visit with our friend Doug (Vik’s old boss at Disney and a man with a treasure trove of embarrassing stories about a 24-year-old Vik). A fellow Carleton grad with a similar passion for world travel as Kaberi, Doug was on a Mediterranean Disney cruise with his family. With his ship docked for the day in Marseilles (an easy three-hour drive from our cottage), Doug was able to meet up with us outside the eclectic city’s exuberant Hotel de Ville. Our freewheeling conversation over a fine seafood meal went by far too quickly as we chatted about our travels and caught up on each others’ lives.

The week crawled by at times, but nevertheless gave us a chance to catch our breath from our adventures in Egypt, Spain and Morocco. We both luxuriated in a little downtime with which to fit in some summer reading, blogpost writing and, of course, excessive sleeping. As the end of June approached, we felt rejuvenated and ready to embark upon new adventures in Europe.

Express Marrakesh

Unable to find a direct flight to Marrakesh, we were forced to change planes in Casablanca. Without the foresight to have withdrawn Moroccan dirhams from an ATM before leaving Fes, we were forced to starve as Casablanca Airport’s transfer terminal did not boast a single ATM or eating establishment accepting credit cards. Adding insult to injury, our Marrakech-bound flight was tardy getting in from London, leaving us to wallow in our low blood sugar levels for an extra hour. We finally arrived in Marrakech at eleven at night. Desperate for sustenance, we coaxed the hotel driver picking us up to make a brief pitstop at McDonalds. If not for her growling stomach, Kaberi would have been aghast at this development.

Our introduction to Marrakesh marked a dramatic contrast to the old medina we had just left in Fes. When we arrived at Riah 72, we were struck by numerous examples of its contemporary take on the traditional riad. Its courtyard featured a sleek, slate-gray water feature adorned with red rose petals and our small, upstairs bedroom boasted stunningly-detailed original wood ceilings.

The next morning, the insistent chirping of neighborhood birds and multiple eardrum-piercing morning calls to prayer from nearby mosques roused us against our will. We resigned ourselves to an early breakfast consisting of assorted freshly-baked breads and pastries served with fresh honey and jams. Reading that the medina of Marrakesh was much easier to navigate than its counterpart in Fes, we felt comfortable venturing out of the riad and into the adjacent streets.

After walking to Marrakech’s distinctive, centrally-positioned Koutoubia Tower without incident, we continued on to Djemma Square, renowned as an atmospheric quadrant filled with snake charmers, musicians, henna painters and food stalls. Unfortunately, upon arriving at high noon, we discovered a sparsely-populated district with little sign of its reputed activities. We were left no choice but to return in the evening to see if things livened up.

From Djemma, we made our way into the medina and began wandering. After some concentrated scrutiny of our hotel-provided streetmap and several stops to ask and clarify directions, we arrived at the Ben Youssaf Medersa. Upon entering the school to admire its architecture, we caught glimpses of not only the courtyard, but also the impossibly-small student quarters (that apparently once housed a total of nearly 800 students).

From the medersa, we wandered the nearby souks purveying items ranging from spices, fruits, silver, mosaics, carpets and slippers to live turtles and porcupines. After soaking in the ambiance until the Moroccan sun proved overbearing, we escaped to one of the city’s beautiful gardens, Jardin Marjorelle, owned and maintained by Yves St. Laurent. Jardin Marjorelle turned out to be a stunning oasis that with its accent walls painted in the same blue shade as French workmen’s uniforms and diverse flora made quite an impression on Kaberi in particular.

Exhausted after our full day, we returned to Riad 72 to watch the sun set behind the city’s dual minaret towers. At dusk, we returned to Djemma Square to enjoy the pageantry over dinner. We found the square full of life with white overhead lights casting a warm glow on the bustling scene. After commencing upon a loop to consider our dining options, we settled on a stall with friendly, animated staff. After assuming seats at a makeshift picnic bench, we feasted on several freshly-grilled options.

The next morning, we explored Marrakech’s Ville Nouvelle on foot. Having steadfastly ignored the tourist hawkers all week, we succumbed to Morocco’s retail persistence and headed to the city’s upscale shopping district. Kaberi indulged herself on uber-fashionable rue de la Liberte with the purchase of designer leather slippers and bottles of local perfume. As a reward for not complaining about the financial magnitude of Kaberi’s high-end shopping detour, a culinarily-homesick Vik was obliged with a snack at Pizza Hut. Despite wrinkling her nose during the process, Kaberi appeared to finish her allotted portion of pan pizza expeditiously.

Our short visit to Morocco came to a close all too quickly and we reluctantly bid the friendly country farewell. Unlike one of its north African counterparts, Morocco is a destination that both of us have on our return agendas.