Sorry about the recent hiatus dear friends and followers. Your faithful Desto3 team has been busy carousing with French (also Ukrainian/American) rock stars, sampling the delights of modern western medicine and trying a little Hollywood on for size. These are three separate adventures, alas, none of these can be shared. You know the drill…what happens in O.P. stays in O.P. We are sworn to secrecy. Zip.

But, we’re baaaaack. Not back back. But, back in the game. Back in the saddle. Back in travel-mode. Back on the job. Reporting to you today from Bosnia-Herzegovina, and also Montenegro, our postcard will be all about several tiny little tiny towns in that region (still in the former Yugoslavia).

After Sarajevo, Mostar was our first stop. The local guidebook calls Mostar “the greatest pearl of the Herzegovina necklace”. And, it just might be that. A relatively unheralded town, it’s been on the international radar since 2005 when the “old bridge” in Mostar was declared a World Heritage site by Unesco. The “old bridge” is actually the new “old bridge” since the original one, built in 1566, was destroyed by “servants of the evil power” in 1993. You can not exaggerate the enmity felt and expressed by the citizens of Mostar toward the jerks who blew up the bridge. In reality, the original stone bridge connected the significant geographic divide of the Neretva river that separated Eastern and Western Herzegovina and the banks of the river within the city of Mostar. Symbolically, and maybe even psychologically, the old bridge represented an actual co-operative and tolerant era that present day Mostarians believe endured for nearly five centuries. Just like elsewhere in the Balkans, you will find no dearth of “monuments”, including cemeteries commemorating either outright war or just the unlucky participants. You could spend a full month visiting these on both sides of the river. Likewise plenty of religious architecture, representing all the usual suspects, has been constructed, destroyed and reconstructed, and you can visit almost all of them now as tourist attractions. The only Jewish Synagogue in all of Herzegovina was built in Mostar circa 1889, but after the “immigration of the Jews” (a quote from the official guidebook – kind of gives you a hint about who is writing the history of Mostar for the tourism industry), in the early nineteen fifties saw it turned into The Puppet Theatre. It is still a theatre today.

But, what’s Mostar really like? It’s great! Hints of Florence, a smidge of Toledo, a flavor of some U.S. college towns. Great Rue du Crapola. A lingering ambience from centuries past of the brass artisans for which Mostar is famous. And, like provincial France and Italy, good food if you know where to go and how to avoid the typical tourist traps (which world-wide seem to over charge you for shit food). Most of the younger locals speak English pretty well and the streets seem extremely safe. (Mind you, Herzegovina is in between wars so now would be a great time to go. You never know when the haters are going to get riled up or bored and start mayhem. History lovers in particular will enjoy Mostar. And, it’s only a half day’s drive in between Sarajevo and the coast of Montenegro…

…Our next desto. We stayed in an efficiency apartment (owned by Serbs) in the town of Budva. As in Serbia, all commerce in Budva is regulated by the “who do you know?” network. Budva, maybe most of the coast in Montenegro, is the tourism playground of the Serbs. The place is completely over-run with Serbs. They vacation there in much the same way northern Americans vacation in Miami. Annually. And, many wealthy Serbs own condos or villas there. The other highly plentiful group, (seen populating the beaches and the nicer beach resorts in vast numbers), is the young nouvou riche set from Russia. We heard more than a few indelicate remarks about this population from our Serbian friends. It would seem that all is not exactly hunky dory between these folks on the social front, but the Russians have the Euros so, “Welcome to Budva, Comrades!”

From Budva we took a car ride up the coast (windy, narrow and gorgeous – think Pacific Coast Highway in California) to Kotor, another very popular tourist destination. It’s crowded like you can’t believe pulling in the day trippers off the cruise ships that leave from Dubrovnik, and the only way to escape the maddening crowds is to make the climb up to the top of the mountain that looks down over the harbor. Cruise people generally are not the sort to make a two to three hour climb in the heat. (Maybe if the dessert buffet was up there…naaaahhh, not likely).

Then we stopped at a couple beaches, (one remote and private) and one completely developed and “lousy with Russians” – a direct quote, and then we went back to Budva for a great fish dinner and one of the best wines of the trip.

One interesting observation after our dedicated beach day: about half the European bathers (males) are now wearing board shorts ala the beach goers of the good old US of A. The other half have still not gotten the memo, proudly sporting big manly white bellies over Speedo style swimming costumes. And, sadly for Pablo, the women of the Balkan coast do not sunbathe topless, although in my experience, even in France and Spain, the ladies most likely to prance about in the waves without a top usually look more like my poor old mum (may she rest in peace) than the Baywatch Babes. So, leave the binoculars at home and move along. Nothing to see here.

You don’t hear too much about the city of Sarajevo these days, but I promise, you will.

Remember when everybody you knew was going to Tuscany a decade or so ago? And, then it was Prague. And, a while later, Peru, Ecuador and the Galapagos. Get packed. It is soon to be all about the Balkans. How do I know? Little things like (the travel blog) Foxnomad’s “Best City to Visit” competition naming Sarajevo in 2012, numero uno, beating more than one hundred other cities around the entire world. Also, if you put any stock into Lonely Planet’s recommendations, take note that a few years ago, on their list of “best cities in the world to visit”, the city of Sarajevo, ranked #43, beats out the other Balkan cities, Dubrovnik at #59, Ljubljana at #84, Bled at #90, Belgrade at #113, and Zagreb at #135 – all of them lovely – by a long shot. (You will pardon the expression.) I say that because if you mention Bosnia-Herzegovina, and in particular, Sarajevo, to anybody who has been drinking legally for a decade or more, those names, more than any thing else, likely conjure up the nasty little skirmish known as “The Bosnian War” which, sadly left it’s ugly mark on the city in the way of bullet holes and war ravaged bomb sites, still excruciatingly prominent throughout the nearby area and inside the city limits proper.

Prior to the 1992 Bosnian war, Sarajevo earned national attention as the site of the 1984 Winter Olympics, beating out Sweden and Japan for the honor. Back then, the Olympic committee picked Sarajevo as the ideal choice thinking that if indeed Sarajevo got the honor, the Olympics held in the non-aligned Yugoslavia would not be boycotted by the Cold War countries. Among the citizenry, there were also those aging naïve-niks who wished for a Sarajevo that might become a symbol of world peace in a country that had been the epicenter for centuries of religious wars as well for the actual location of the outbreak of WWI. (You can visit the site and stand on the sidewalk where the archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria was blown away.) Well, as my old friend, Butch used to say, “If wishes were fishes, we’d all be in the sea.” Fat chance. Within a decade, Bosnia was again an ethnic slaughterhouse of epic proportions.

Is there a country with a bloodier more violent history than Bosnia? I don’t think so. If you look up, “cluster-fuck” in the dictionary, it says, “*see also the history of Bosnia”. Going way way way back.

To tell you the truth, I simply can’t truly grasp what the beefs are. Mostly religious of course. (Ain’t that always the way, Grace?) And, ethnic. And, tribal. And turf. But, who did what to whom, when and where and how? Wowza. As an aside, let me just give mad props, (as the youngsters say) to the school children of the Balkan nations whom I assume have to learn (and comprehend) the complex history of the region. It makes my brain hurt to even try.

Is it safe to go there now? Hell, yes. I never felt safer than I felt strolling up and down the main drag very late at night looking for the best pastry, among many, many fine looking opportunities to buy late night grub. In the afternoon, you can sit in a hookah bar smoking sheesha among tables populated by head scarf girls, Orthodox Serbs or crucifix wearing Catholics. Currently, the only conflict among the residents and café customers of Sarajevo seems to be who’s going to take the bill. (And, btw, I will give Bosnia an A in the food department.) Fabulous coffee, too and surprisingly decent wines.

So, to sum it up, it’s a safe city; it’s also a cultural and historical mecca, if a tiny bit war-torn. And, for those of you of the Roman Catholic persuasion who might be hoping to get your Marian apparition* on while taking a little vaykay, you’ll be jazzed to know that the Bosnian town of Medjugorje has become one of the most popular pilgrimage sites for Catholics in the world and has turned into Europe’s third most important apparition site, where each year more than 1 million people visit. It has been estimated that 30 million pilgrims have come to Medjugorje since the reputed apparitions began in 1981. Mickey Mouse, eat your heart out.

*For the non-Catholics, a Marian apparition is when the Holy Virgin Mary (mother of Jesus) makes a personal appearance just for you, usually giving you some instructions like “build me a cathedral here on this spot” or, “dedicate the rest of your entire life to prayer”. Oddly, I guess, it isn’t ever anything mundane like, “hey, go get me a Fudgesicle and be quick about it”.

Okay, non-believers, be nice. I had a client back in the day who for a while saw Homer Simpson in Starbucks occasionally and when he stopped showing up she just said, “Maybe he’s off caffeine.” My policy is, just because Homer (or Mary, Mother of God) doesn’t appear to me, that doesn’t mean I’m a bad person, or other people are crazy. But, neither of those things can be entirely ruled out either. Let this lesson be an opportunity for us all to practice religious tolerance. Hopefully it catches on in Bosnia.

Wish you were here.

Why?

Why Serbia? If I had a dollar for every person who asked that question, I could have paid for an upgrade to “upper class” on that last Virgin flight.

Even the Serbs asked a plaintive, yet sincerely incredulous, “Why are you here?”

So, I’m gonna tell you.

Country counters come in all stripes. The variety known as the “purists” pick nits, split hairs, quibble incessantly, take no prisoners, and they do NOT count a country if said country wasn’t a country when their little pooties touched down on foreign soil. (They look askance at the counters who double dip.) So, since Pablo tends toward this kind of purism in his counting ways, and because he was in Belgrade only back in the day, and not since…(back when Tito ruled the roost), he was loath to include “Serbia” in his final country count. Likewise, all the Balkan nations, which were back in the seventies collectively just one country, Yugoslavia. Not to be condescendingly informative, but, try to remember, Desto 3 has a few followers who were born in the nineties. They think Tito was Dorothy’s dog in “The Whiz”…IF they saw the musical. They don’t even know who Judy Garland was, forget Toto. Forget Tito.

Onward. We were bound to retrace Pablo’s steps through the Balkan region to legitimize the boy’s country count. Serbia, Bosnia-Herzogovina, Montenegro at least. Not Kosovo because we traveled with a Serbian guide in a car that had Serbian license plates and that’s a no-no. Essentially, to Serbs, Kosovo does not exist.

For my part, somewhere along the line I met and made fast virtual friends with a lovely young American writer Laura, an ex-pat living in Serbia with her Serbian husband and her two (adorable) Serbo-American kids. When I told her that I’d be in the neighborhood, so to speak, she did what is done (universally) in that part of the world, she invited us to visit. And, so we did.

Here are my reflections on the nation and the people:

I did some field research. Research consisting of informal interviews of every Serb I could get my hands on. “Give me the first 5 characteristics you think of when you try to describe the typical Serb.” Dozens of them were forthcoming. That’s my first observation. Serbs are extraordinarily accommodating – first example: we arrived at the Hotel Moskva in Belgrade at midnight our first night, starving as it had been at least an hour since we’d had anything to eat. The closing hotel kitchen nevertheless whipped us up a couple of scrumptious club sammies and sold us a bottle of (excellent) local vino while they literally swept the floors around us. They told us to enjoy ourselves and not fret about keeping them well past closing time. And, they meant it, or at least seemed to.

Notably, in response to my survey, every single subject I asked included the word “stubborn” in their five characteristics. Most of the time that was the first descriptor they listed. But, also, “loyal” came up a lot. And, “family oriented”. Which I think is why my ex-pat friend is living there.

The culture can’t be beat for child rearing. Serbs generally think that children are precious and they take delight in the little ones like no other culture I’ve seen. They also take the whole “it takes a village” thing very seriously. Your kid messes up and I’m the only adult on sight? It’s my duty to straighten them out. (But in a nice way. Like a beloved old Auntie. Children are revered in Serbia.) Also, nobody hesitates to issue unsolicited parenting advice in Serbia. To complete strangers. The neighbors will let you know in a red hot second if they think your kid needs a sweater, and what the hell is wrong with you anyway that your kid is wearing an item of clothing deemed “inappropriate”? You’ll get an earful. The best way to describe the Serbian ethics of child rearing is thus: the children of Serbia belong, in a way, collectively to everyone, as if the next generation truly is a national resource, and for that reason, everyone is obligated to protect them. Everyone has the right, nay duty, to care for them (maybe even discipline them).

One afternoon after we’d hooked up with our hired car and driver, Pablo gave a big pretzel to a kid on the street at our Serbian guide’s suggestion and when I told him that you can’t do such things in America, that a geezer handing out baked treats to kids on the street would find himself in prison answering to the name “Mr. Stranger Danger” before the sun set on the day, he shook his head and said, “Oh, yes, in America everyone has their lawyer’s number on speed dial.” (That’s a little insight for you re: what Serbs think about us!)

I’ll admit that at first I thought there were some boundary violations (in terms of “mind your own fucking business”), but then I kind of started to like it. A lot. There’s a real sweetness to the attitudes about childhood in that part of the world. We could learn from them. It was easy to understand why my writer friend and her husband packed the kids up and moved them to Serbia for their primary years. (And, I’m happy to report that this was apparently an excellent strategy because their little darlings are spectacular human beings. Bi-lingual human beings, too.)

Our guide was a 29 year old Serb who possessed seemingly infinite knowledge and absolutely zero reluctance to render his (informed) opinion. For a solid week, from breakfast to nightcaps, he lectured non-stop about all things Balkan. Culture, history, sociology, archeology. You name it. One day toward the end of our trip, half way up to the top of the climb overlooking Kotor in Montenegro (more about this area soon), after listening to Srki’s non-stop daily lecture, I asked him, “How much of what you are telling us is bullshit?” He paused and gave my question some earnest thought. “Three, maybe four percent,” he said. Then, “but, I embellish, not really make things up.” You’ll pardon me for giving him extra points for knowing the English word “embellish”. (Do you know the Serbian translation? I didn’t think so.) I also give him extra credit points for his candor and honesty about the recent history of the region, although for the life of me, I still can’t grasp the complexity of the border and ethnic issues in spite of my effort. The disputes in that region go back to antiquity. And, Serbs, remember, (everybody else, too) are stubborn.

In short, I came away understanding little more than I knew before I got there but I conclude this one thing: if you can do it, hire a guide and a driver if you have only a short time to cover a lot of ground. It’s so worth it.

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)

One of the finest things about foreign travel is the kind of magical encounters with strangers that you remember for years, even decades. Meet Gillie and John.

Typically, one does not really expect to find a dashing, movie star like person flitting about an antique road car (of such arcane origins it utterly defies identification) when one alights from one’s merely four star hotel. (I had never seen ANYTHING LIKE IT, nor indeed ever even heard its name, which I have already forgotten.) Nevertheless, that is precisely what I encountered two days ago in Bologna, Italy. I believe my mouth gaped open unattractively. (At the car.)

Now, I am wholly willing to stipulate here: I don’t know a carburetor from a cannoli, but, I do know a hot car when I see one. This car reeked of history, luxury and grandeur. An automotive legend, even to a dolt like me. I started to circle this glorious vehicle, thinking I would ask if I could take a photo for my son-in-law, (a real car guy) and I stumbled over the movie star’s lady friend, nearly supine over her opened luggage on the cobblestones. (Think a combination of Petula Clarke and Emma Thompson with just touch of one of the Redgrave girls thrown in; a vision in white and orange sherbet, frantically and energetically stuffing salamis into her bag.)

Cumulatively, they were not a sight you are likely to see often.

John’s “machine” was one of a 6 car rally that drove down the entire continent all the way to Sicily from Great Britain. The other five autos, (every one as dazzling as John’s, we were assured), had motored on ahead, but, man! That would have been something to see. All six! Gilly seemed genuinely dismayed that we had missed the conclave. Such is the unparalleled grace and charm of the British…Gilly and John proceeded to enthusiastically entertain us (to our great delight) with recommendations to world-wide destos EVERYWHERE and tales of exotic past road rallies in their magic car, for almost an hour. Meanwhile, they packed up their car to it’s roof with gallons of olive oil, cases of wine and (possibly prohibited) salamis, (but we won’t tell).

Inquiring minds will want to know, how does one manage the lifestyle? Since nobody expects Americans to be anything but abrupt and boorish, I inquired.

Gillie claimed that she and John are London-based antiques dealers specializing in paintings of dogs, cats and horses. “You can make a living doing that?” I think I may have exceeded the quota for American rudeness when I exhibited some incredulity. Gillie said frankly that some of these objects d’ arte fetch upwards of $US60K. That’s sixty THOUSAND dollars for an old, (very old) painting of a pug. “Who buys that shit?” I think I may have said. (Cringe.) To her credit, Gillie blanched only slightly at my horrible faux pas and then patiently, without a smidgeon of condescension, explained that some people REALLY really love dogs. She addressed me like a developmentally delayed person. “People who love dogs might want a print of a fine specimen, and so some people will buy one of those for ten dollars. Others, with more resources, will pay a few hundred dollars. And, then there are those for whom sixty thousand is practically the same thing.” I wish I had a video of that convo. It would go viral in an hour.

We waited until John fired up the engine, and just as I suspected, it sounded like no car engine you’ve, (certainly I’ve), never heard.

I suspect the two of them are really agents in the British Secret Service, but we will never know. And, if not, I hope Gillie’s impressive sausage smuggling subterfuge worked when they hit the border.