A Few “Housekeeping Notes” from your Desto3 Team

In response to the widow Hopkins, writing from her deathbed in Great Britain and the (semi hostile) email I got this week about eliminating the comments section…

First, about eliminating the comments. We had to do it. Here’s why.

Those of you who have any kind of world wide webbie experience know this already: within twenty minutes of having a virtual presence on the internet, you will immediately (IMMEDIATELY) get quite a few emails from hopeful new subscribers with names like “Vladamir” or “Serge” telling you how much they like to “loffes your site”. (Vlad, this message is ambiguous at best,…do you mean you “love” my site, or you love to “laugh” at my site? I just don’t know.)Either way, Vlad, as 99% of me believes that you are a hacker somewhere in Eastern Europe who just wants to get into my system so you can try to sell worthless penis enhancing products to my entire subscriber list …No.

Even though there is that one percent of me (ego) that wants to believe that I am the best travel blogger out there, and I could have a HUGE virtual presence in Albania… I can’t take that chance. (I’m doing this for you, hostile subscriber!)

Also, and this is hard to admit, but I have to do it…(with some trepidation as I am recalling a short lecture I gave one semester which I titled, “Professor S. Has Better Things To Do…”. The gist of the lecture went something like this, “I have over 120 students this semester (adjunct faculty is horribly over-worked and exploited but that’s a different blog) so if every one of you writes me just ONE email that takes me only FIVE minutes to read and answer…do the math, people. That’s about twenty hours a week. Please, please, please!…only email me with SERIOUS problems or questions.”

Well. Now, what do you suppose happened? Of course. My mail doubled. My inbox was flooded. (Why are Psychology majors so perverse? And, so needy? Sheesh.) Anyhow, taking that known risk, let me just be honest here and tell you this sad truth. Because an admin has to respond individually to each and every comment, reading comments (and weeding out the ones from riff-raff Euro-trash) is a J.O.B. and nobody at Desto3 wants one of those. So, that’s why we disabled the comments on the site almost immediately. So sorry. (But, also, not really.)

Now, we DO love the comments that come via email to our MyNextDesto gmail address or personal email addies if you happen to have those. (So far, Vlad and Serge do not.)

Just know that even though we read everything, we might not be able to send you a response right away, or ever. (I am oddly even fond of the compulsive proof-readers out there!) And, I am saddened almost weekly that I can’t repost some of the sweet and funny comments we get from our “regs”. (You know who you are! Please don’t stop writing us with your comments and even your complaints). We really really do love YOU.)

One final thing, Mrs. J.C. Hopkins has been writing to me lately about the 17.5 million GB pounds that her late husband left to her. As she is on her death bed, (poor soul) she has asked me to step up and be the administrator of the funds, suggesting that perhaps I would be using them for a children’s hospital or some other worthy entity.

I’m going to pass on her generous offer but only because I don’t trust myself.

I suspect that with 17 million pounds plus, I’d be way more likely to buy myself a little house on the water front in Malibu before I gave any of Mrs. Hopkins’ money to sick children. (Turns out, I’m just not that nice, but I’m grateful that the widow Hopkins clearly thinks so highly of me.)

But, hey, you can let me know if you’d like to give it a shot. I’ll put you in touch with her asap.

And, as always, know this: wherever we are, “we wish you were here”!

Dateline Naples, Italy.

I don’t know when Pablo discovered Anthony Bourdain or when exactly they became BFFs, but I do know that when Anthony suggested to Pablo that the best, the most delicious, the most “authentic” pizza was made ONLY in Naples, Italy, we would be making a little detour to check it out sooner rather than later.

To be fair, poor Pablo, (a native New Yorker), has been living, deprived of New York pizza (the only “really good pizza”) for many long decades. (His Mama, may she rest in peace, used to bring him a slice or two when she flew out to visit, but we can all agree that pizza 6 hours cold ain’t no pizza worth eating, really.)

So, a while back Anthony B. went to Naples on his cable show and swooned (literally swooned) over the pies made there. Ever the pessimist, I had doubts. (Just as the buxom naked beauties of the Yesterhavkamp sauna were not in place as advertised in that glossy brochure in our hotel in Denmark a few years ago – note: not only no naked blonde beauties, but NO DAMN SAUNA – I was pretty sure that the glorious pizzas out of the famed wood fire ovens in Naples were sure to be of some disappointment.)

I’m willing to admit when I am wrong.

The pizza in Naples is the best pizza in the world. And, in my book, Naples, Italy is well worth visiting. The locals are delightful. They are loyal and fiercely proud of their city. Oh, they are well aware of the world-wide reputation they have for dubious garbage collection practices, but just you try to take a photo of an overflowing garbage can on any street and see what happens. (Pablo had his American ass handed to him a couple of times.)

They also know that everybody in the world believes their cab drivers are shady. (Maybe for good reason, though.) We had just enough time in Naples for two pizzas and three taxi rides. We probably got ripped off once. (The cab ride from the airport to the hotel cost more than twice what the same ride cost a day later. BFD. So, Guido saw us coming. “Let it goooooo, let it gooooo…”

Pizza #1: We took the long walk from our hotel down the beach front strand amid the Sunday afternoon parade that IS Naples. This is the meaning of the word, “promenade”. Our desto was Lievito Madre al Mare, a new-ish pizza place right on the beach front opened by popular demand by Gino Sorbillo, one of Naples’ most famous pizza makers. Gino’s original pie shop in Naples was on top of the list of the “10 best pizzas in Naples” so that was definitely going to be one of our pizzas.

We arrived about two hours before the dinner pizzas were rolled out so we took a little walk and then sat and enjoyed the view over some Pelligrino. The staff are super nice, and when they found out that we were in Naples JUST for the day to eat one of THEIR pizzas…they ran in the back to get the RED CARPET. (Metaphorically speaking.) The boss came out and introduced us to his whole family. Before too long the place was completely filled up and our fondest pizza fantasies were realized.

It started to rain on us and our nearest neighbors literally pulled our table under their umbrella and invited us to join them. We chit chatted about Naples, pizza, boats, (they have one) and flying to get places you want to go. (Thea yes, Elio no.) Thea is a great example of the typical Neapolitan; she LOVES her city, has lived there her entire life and wouldn’t dream of living anywhere else, but she is exceedingly well traveled. (Kind of unusual for most Italians.) I was so glad it started to rain.

The next morning we struck out to visit the “old city” briefly before heading to the airport. Half way there we were drawn to an “event” setting up on the main street. By a strange and magical co-incidence, Desto3 had managed to arrive in Naples on the very same day that the “pizza festival” was taking place! Forty two restaurants from all over Naples were represented at the four day event and the principle organizer was LA’s very own ambassador of pizza who came out to shake our hands and welcome us to Naples on behalf of the Associazone Verace Pizza Naploetana. You wouldn’t think that pizza needs promotion, but, hey, if it’s going to be done, where better than the home of the greatest pizza in the world? (Check out the website www.pizzanapoletana.org for info about pizza worldwide.)

In conclusion, is Naples a safe city? Some say no. Others say that Naples is no more dangerous than any other large metropolitan area in any other country in the world. (Consulting WHO statistics, you’re more likely to get victimized as a tourist in my home town, LA.) I say, keep your wits about you. Don’t stray into areas that seem sketchy. Don’t flash wads of cash on the street. And leave your passport and important papers in the safe in your room. Just like you would do in any other big city in the world.

Ciao!

Somebody you know had to do it. Go to Malta. Not a hardship, really. (You’re welcome.)

I don’t know exactly what I expected, but whatever it was, I was so, so, so very wrong. Somebody says, “Malta” and what do YOU think? I thought about Humphrey Bogart. Turns out, this is not as loose an association as you might imagine. The Maltese Falcon was a real thing. And, a real bird too. (The bird since the 16th century. And movie making is huge, huge right now on tiny little Malta. More than 100 feature films have used Malta’s spectacular scenery for location shoots. They are courting film makers like crazy and quite elaborately. Who knew?)

Speaking of films, when in Valletta, Malta’s capital city, you must attend the “Malta Experience” (like we did). Five thousand years of Maltese history distilled into 45 minutes of celluloid factoids. Here’s the short version: Archeological remains indicate that Malta’s earliest cave dwellers apparently worshipped a female deity. (A portly little waif whose plaster likenesses can be purchased reasonably today in almost every souvenir shop on the Rue du Crapola in town.) Peace and harmony, if not technological advances, reigned while The Chubby One was in charge. Of course, men took over almost immediately and what followed was approximately 4,900 years of war and mayhem featuring all the usual players. Boys will be boys.

The 16th century A.D. figures prominently in the history of Malta because of the “Knights Hospitaller” and you can take a tour of the actual hospital after the movie for no extra charge. The knights were good guys initially, men of medicine and science, and they were given as a swell gift the entire archipelago by Emperor Charles V in a perpetual lease. The annual rent was the small token price of “one Maltese Falcon” which seems more than fair. Hence the origin of the “Maltese Falcon”. Ultimately, there was…corruption, moral turpitude, chaos, pestilence and debauchery. The “boys will be boys” scenario writ very large. Ownership of the islands changed hands many, many times with the Catholics winning out in the end. Today 98% of the population of Malta is still RC with a small un-assimilated East Indian minority quite visible in the shops and restaurants.

Currently Malta boasts the best average weather of any country in the world. Just one reason why they are fast becoming a favored film location.

It’s located a mere 80km south of Italy (Sicily), 284km east of Tunisia and a mere 333 clicks north of Libya. We flew over from Sicily and then departed to Serbia with a short plane change in Munich. Malta is part of the EU and so their currency is the Euro. You will need a few of them for your trip, but it isn’t horrible like Iceland, where we will tell you, you might want to consider taking out a second mortgage on your home before booking your flight to Reykjavik.

The people of Malta are SUPER nice. Everybody. Even the average tourists seemed a cut above, (although it was early in the season before the hordes arrive). The general populace (in Valletta) has a cultured European sensibility; I was feeling a little Italy, (Tuscany maybe), a whiff of Greece, (a bit more sophisticated and educated), just a dollop of France, (especially in the food and architecture) and a real bouquet of England, (language, of course and a genuine love of all that is pompous).

It is rumored that it gets pretty hot there, temperature wise, and by the time the summer season is winding down, like in any tourist desto, (we have noticed that) sometimes the hospitality starts to wane a tiny bit. For that reason, if you can, hit Malta up on the shoulder season. In fact, if you can, go everywhere on the shoulder…just my preference because tourists are still delightful to the locals. (After a few months of the haggling and the whining and the demanding of free wee fee, let’s face it, it must wear them down and get just a little old. Europe seems weary in the late summer.)

In addition to “Experience Malta”, an additional attraction of note would be the very lovely Casa Rocca Piccola, a 16th century palace of a noble Maltese family that dates back to that famed golden century as a private palace and is still occupied as a private residence to this day. See how the “other half” have lived in Malta and then stop into the Casa Rocca Shop for a little chat and some advice about all things Malta. Anna and Antoinette were kind enough to sample some cds for us and instruct us about the unique folk music form called, Ghana, (pronounced Ahh-Na, the gh is silent), in which two singers “battle” back and forth in a total improvisation. It is best described as a kind of Maltese rap duet.

Buy a tie with the famed Maltese cross for any of your tie-wearing friends, and peruse the vast selection of books about Malta. This shop is a big step up from the RdC and the usual souvenir shop. Plus Anna and Antoinette are charming beyond words and generous with advice and consultation. The restaurant attached to and owned by the Casa looked great. (The time wasn’t right or we would have definitely eaten there.)

You can take a guided tour of the city in a horse drawn carriage. And while you do so, you might speculate on why it is that there are 3, count ‘em 3 automobiles on the island for every citizen of Malta. Car nutters flock there it would seem. We didn’t drive, so I can’t report on the traffic, but how can it be good? On the plus side, you can walk the entire city of Valletta twice in a single day.

If you’re into that sort of thing, the garrisons of olden times are well preserved and for the cannon fetishists, you won’t be disappointed. For myself, every gun is a bad gun and the biggest ones are just big bad things. But, if it’s a turn on for you, every day at 4:00 p.m. a uniformed guard re-enacts the daily cannon fire across the sound into Gozo. I find those re-enactments kind of sad and a bit boring, but I know, judging from the turn-out, I am in the vast minority on that one.

Don’t forget to visit the trip notes for a short review of our hotel (marvelous!) and a couple restaurants we loved.

That sums up Malta. As always, we wish you were here.

An Aussie family with two early teen boys was eating lunch out of Tupperware half way up to the fortress on the hill overlooking Kotor in Montenegro the other day. I’ll admit it. I had some judgment for that mom. Who brings Tupperware half way around the world? And, to Montenegro of all places, which happens to have cheap and wonderful food (heavily influenced by the Italian neighbors). Needless to say, the amusing little family tableau was riveting to all who paused.

The drama featured the youngest son who agreed with me. (Why is it always so funny when SOMEBODY ELSE’S twelve year old kid is whining about their lunch choices?) It seems that Skippy wasn’t overly fond of the packed lunch, sammies with a thin dark substance smeared onto pasty looking white bread. Who can blame him? The older boy, (goodie-goodie, certainly mom’s “favorite”) was dutifully chomping away while his black-sheep brother, (probably the genetic recipient of all that convict DNA) gave both parents a real hard time about something called “Marmite”. (Never heard of it, but it didn’t sound good.)

Fast forward. (The Aussie kid is probably in protective custody by now) – right through the Balkans and London and find me in a city “apartment” in Edinburgh where, as part of the continental breakfast, there appears a jar of, yep…Marmite. Well, my friends, intrepid world traveller that I am, in possession of an abiding curiosity of foreign cultures, (okay, truthfully foreign FOOD), I quickly unscrewed the cap and took a big whiff. Now, if you have experience yourself with this “food” product, you will understand why I came perilously close to tossing my cookies right the fuck into the morning bread basket. The only thing I’ve ever smelled that comes close to describing the aroma of Marmite is a product involving fish emulsion that I used to dilute and apply to house plants. WTF? People in Australia willingly feed this to their children???

From the Marmite label: Marmite Yeast Extract is rich in B vitamins and 100% vegetarian. (It has that going for it.) Furthermore it is manufactured by Unilever in London. I know I’ll piss off a few Brits, but, what the hell…any food made by the British is going to be somewhat suspect to start with, but isn’t Unilever a corporate entity known primarily for making and selling cleaning products? (I could be wrong and I know the citizens of England will inform.) The label proudly boasts that Marmite is primarily composed of “yeast Extract, vegetable extract, spice extract”.

I really hadn’t considered this topic worthy of a Desto3 postcard, then, yesterday, driving from Edinburgh to Inverness, (Scotland) we stopped for a short tour in Stirling and wandered into a little café. (Check trip notes.) While I waited for my Panini I picked up the newspaper. There was an article on page 5 about the hubbub surrounding the release of “Marmite cupcakes”. Apparently, following the craze (and by that, in my opinion, I mean cra-zee) that has folks putting bacon into all manner of sweets, (chocolate chip cookies and the like), some culinary genius in Britain (ha!) has decided that chocolate cupcakes have been just begging for an injection to their center of Marmite. Kind of like the venerable Hostess cupcakes only, NOT.

The article says that the release of these goodies will be short term, only available for two months in limited quantity, and they fully expect that folks will either “love them or hate them”. (I vote hate.) Reactions will be likely based on your “baseline Marmite sensibilities”. I kid not.

It’s my job to travel and taste so you don’t have to. But, don’t thank me. Exhortations to contact the makers at Unilever with your questions is right there on the label: “the Marmite loveline” (toll free at least) 0800 0323656.

Sorry to say, we were IN Sicily but I didn’t see all that much because the truth is, Sicily, (okay, maybe not ALL of Sicily, but Catania for sure), is the dog shit capital of the world. Literally. Look up from the sidewalk, only at your peril. And, do NOT wear flip flops. There is so much dog crap on the sidewalks of Catania, if you look up for one eensy step, I’ll put it this way, (in case you are eating breakfast in another time zone)…this is a mistake that you will make only ONCE.

Other than that small criticism, Sicily was great. Not, “wish you were here” great, but…super food, nice people, Roman ruins and cathedrals aplenty, and of course, the Italian table wines are great and cheap. But, yes, there’s a good reason why everybody you know has been to Florence, Rome, Venice and Tuscany and you can’t produce knowledge of a single soul who has visited Sicily. (I could be wrong. Or, perhaps they are all still cleaning their shoes. You just haven’t heard their report yet.)

So, why (you have a right to know) were WE there? This is a story that has to do with bicycles and red sauce and Pablo’s romantic, ancient memories from a previous trip some forty years ago with an Italian beauty during his mis-spent youth. It also loosely involves the search for the best pizza in the world and that bastard, Anthony Bourdain (which is really a story about Naples). (Naples gets its own postcard. Next up.)

Regarding the bicycle portion of the story, sometimes P decides that he wants to do something, (however ill-advised), and God Damn It, we are going to do it! Bicycling in Sicily was one of those things. It was a significant learning experience. What I learned from riding a bike in Catania, Italy: l) Round-a-bouts are made for cars, not bicycles. 2) “Fuck you, asshole!” means the same thing in every country in the world. A universal parcel of language. It needs no translation. 3) American women (of a certain age) should not ride bicycles in foreign countries. It makes the locals very nervous to see granny wearing black spandex and a helmet pedaling like crazy down the main avenue of town. I have learned these lessons and I shall apply them in all future travel. (Unless P decides we have to do it in Edinburgh, coming up in a week or so. Wish me luck.)

The story about the girl and the red sauce is like every story you’ve ever heard about a boy in love with a beautiful girl who had long black hair and Italian roots and relatives who made “the best, the heartiest, the most delicioso red sauce in the entire universe”. The truth is, the girl is now a gray haired AARP recipient in Garden Grove, California, the relatives, long dead, are remembered with a fondness and an accuracy that only mythological relatives are offered, and the legendary red sauce, when ordered in a Sicilian trattoria, is a disappointing “light red”, heavy on the olive oil and garlic and light on the tomatoes. But, whatever. In the case of memories involving old lovers and previous dinner fare both, perhaps one should pay heed to old Thomas Wolfe. (You really can’t EVER go “home” again. Or, in this case, back to Sicily.)

I think Tom also advised to mind your step (at least in Catania)