Planes, Trains, & Autobuses, Part III

Mike on a regional train

 “...what thrills me about trains is not their size or their equipment but the fact that they are moving, that they embody a connection between unseen places.”  ― Marianne Wiggins

Before I continue with the story about our crappy pleasant second train ride last Friday, allow me to explain the Italian train system a little better so that all of this makes sense.  There are different levels of train service, as I noted before.  The fast trains—Frecciarossa, Frecciargento, and Frecciabianco—are also the long-distance trains and always include seat reservations.  They are all air-conditioned and have a cafe and attendants who come through the coaches offering refreshments at affordable costs.  They travel at 185 mph, 155 mph, and 125 mph respectively and travel between major cities.

Frecciargento fast train

The intercity (IC) trains, which travel from 100-120 mph, a step down from the fast trains, and they stop in big cities. Seat assignments are mandatory, and the coaches are air-conditioned.  The Regional Veloce (RV) and Regional  (R) trains operate within a region (Emilia-Romagna, Veneto, etc.) or between adjacent regions.  The RV trains stop in main stations along the lines while the R trains stop in every station along the local lines.  The tickets do not include seat assignments, and the trains may or may not be air-conditioned.

Regional train

Friday, Part II

Once we arrived at Tiburtina station, Mike sat with the luggage while I ran to the ticket machine to buy our tickets to Sulmona. Because Sulmona is neither a major nor a big city, we would have to take a regional (RV or R) to get there.  The next train left a little over an hour after we got to Rome, and it was scheduled to take over three hours to get there.  That little fact is interesting because the 190-mile trip from Bologna-to-Rome took just under two hours.  The 90-mile trip from Rome-to-Sulmona would take 33% longer.

We headed to the platform about 30 minutes before we were due to leave and found the train already there.  Since it was a regional train, it looked old, dirty, and tired.  I sighed because I knew we had a long ride ahead of us and I was afraid that we might not have air during the trip.   A week prior, we had been stuck on a regional train that didn't have air. L et me just say that it was not pleasant in the Italian heat and humidity.

As we walked down the platform, we saw that the windows on the first couple of cars were open. Not a good sign.  Mike headed for the first open door.

"It looks like the windows on the fourth car are closed," I said to Mike.  "Let's go down there and check for air."   We hauled the suitcases down the platform, up the train steps, and opened the door to the coach.  Sweet cool air.  We put our luggage on the seats next to us and sat down.  There were only a few others in the coach.  "Thank heaven," I sighed.  "I couldn't take three hours on this thing without air."

As we waited, more people came into the car.  We noticed that a few people climbed into the coach in front of ours, sat down, and quickly stood up and headed in search of cooler air.  As more and more riders found seats in our coach, the temperature rose.  A couple with a screaming toddler in tow headed down the  platform.

"No.  No." I frantically whispered to no one. "The other coach. Go in the other coach."   They hauled the stroller up the stairs, looked through the door to our coach, and turned to go in the coach in front of ours.  "Thank you, Jesus," I whispered as they got the stroller secured and sat down.

Barb, Jerry, Ed, & Kathy seated in the fast train.  Note the table.

I gave thanks a little too early.  After sitting no more than three minutes in the other coach, they headed to our coach.  "Crap," I said to Mike.  "How close are they sitting to us?"  He assured me that they'd chosen seats at the other end of the coach.  "How many more seats are there?" I was sure everyone in Rome was going to board our train, come into our coach, and suck out what little cool air was left.

"There are a lot of empty seats," Mike told me.  "It's time to leave, so we'll be okay."  He is so optimistic.

As the train pulled out of the station, a guy who'd been sitting in the coach in front of ours jumped up and transferred to our coach.  He looked at the seat next to me (DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT, I mentally chanted.), the rest of the coach, and plopped down in a seat across the aisle.  The gal who was sitting there had parked her two pieces of luggage on the floor, so his sitting there forced her to move both pieces in front of her. She had no leg room, and his was less than it should have been.

In all honesty, she should have put her luggage on the rack above her head, so her lack of legroom was partially her fault. On the other hand, the dude had the choice of at least 20 other seats, so his lack of space was entirely his fault. 

As I said before, our 90-mile journey took over three hours because we had 13 stops before reaching Sulmona. Luckily, the screaming toddler quieted down not long after we took off, and no one else came into our coach.  I took out my iPod and my iPad and settled in.

The dude across the aisle started fidgeting.  He stretched his legs across the aisle.  He pulled them back. He shifted in his seat to look out of the window.  He shifted to look at me.  He straightened up and looked forward.  He turned in his seat and looked back at the rest of the car.  He stared at the ceiling. He stared at the lady sharing his space. He stared at Mike. He stared at me.

Head down so I could read my iPad, I watched him out of the corner of my eye. I stared back at him, and he shifted to look out of the window again.  For over an hour, he constantly moved. Stretch. Shift. Stare. Stretch. Shift. Stare.  I couldn't concentrate on my reading, so I gave up.

After a few people behind us got off at a stop in some little town, Shifty got up and sat in one of their now-empty seats behind Mike. At the next stop, the gal with whom he'd shared his first seat left.  He stood up and slid back into the seat he'd first occupied.  He stood up and slid into the seat facing his first seat.  He stared out of the window.  He grabbed his backpack and pulled a large cellophane bag out of it. He opened the bag and pulled a little packet of some food out of it.  He tore the packet open, sniffed it, and pulled out what looked like a lacy piece of dry, grey I-don't-know-what.  He crunched it down quickly.

Italo has only fast trains.

After a few minutes, he shifted in his seat, pulled another packet out of the bag, opened and sniffed it, and stuffed it into the trash container for his seat.  By this time, the train was at a standstill at a little station in the middle of nowhere, and for 20-30 minutes or so, we waited while something went on. Trenitalia personnel  never told us why we sat there for so long.  Since  there was little we could do, I tried to read.  Shifty, however, had food on his mind.  For the entire time we delayed wherever and for the last hour of our journey, he kept trying to find a comfortable position and food that wasn't spoiled.  Shift. Sniff. Stuff. Snack. Shift. Sniff. Snack. Stuff.  (Let me just say that whether the stuff smelled good or not—and there was no way I could tell—it looked horrible, and you couldn't have paid me to eat it.  Then again, he didn't offer any up, so all that was a moot point.)

I'll be the first to admit that this trip wasn't the worst we'd had.  By no means was it as bad as the earlier fast train with the armrest hog.  That said, it wasn't the most comfortable, either.  More than three hours in a slightly air-conditioned coach was not fun, but it was better than having to ride in a coach that had no air at all.  The worst thing for me was Shifty.  His constant fidgeting drove me crazy, and because there are some not-so-normal people in the world today, I just could not relax wondering what he was doing.

We arrived safely in Sulmona, as you've probably guessed, and spent a nice weekend with Novelia and Peppe.  Novelia has told me more than once that we should consider taking the Arpa Bus from Rome to Sulmona and vice versa because it is faster.  After the delays and such on this particular day, I decided that I'd look into taking it back to Rome on Tuesday.


I did, and we did, and that bus trip was, well, I'll tell you about *it* tomorrow.

Planes, Trains, & Autobuses, Part II

Sunflower fields in Emilia-Romagna

 "I woke up early and took the first train to take me away from the city. The noise and all its people. I was alone on the train and had no idea where I was going..."   ― Charlotte Eriksson

The problem with using public transportation of any kind is that there are so many things that are out of your control—on-time departures/arrivals, fellow passengers, noise level, temperature, delays, and so much more.  While I like to travel by plane or train (or even bus or subway), I also hate to travel those same ways because of the wayward things that can happen.

"You are too Type-A," a pilot friend once told me. "The reason all that bothers you is that you can't be in control."  Exactly.  Once we pay for the ticket and put our butts in the seats, we are at the mercy of the public transportation gods, and they most certainly do like to play with us at times...like last Friday, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.  Let's start from the beginning.....

FRIDAY, PART I

Since we were traveling from Bologna to Sulmona, I'd booked a fast train from Bologna-to-Rome where we were supposed to pick up a rental car for our drive to Sulmona. It's another story, but we ended up not being able to rent, so we had to transfer in Rome to a regional train (aka slowwww train) bound for Sulmona.  As I've mentioned before, everyone has a seat assignment on the fast trains, and they're overly more comfortable.  (NOTE: Train seats are configured so that four seats face each other.  Seats 1 A and B face seats 2 A and B, and across the aisle, seats 1 C and D face seats 2 C and D.  On the high-speed trains, there is a small table between the facing seats.)

From the train window

Mike and I had seats in Coach 11, and we yanked our luggage down the aisle to seats 9D and 10D only to find someone already sitting in 10D, my seat.  Pietro Antonio (Guess how I know his name.) had his head glued to the window and was jamming to the music on his iPhone.

"Excuse me," I said to him, "but you're in my seat."  Nothing.  I tapped him on the shoulder, and he looked at me.  "That's my seat."  I pointed to the seat, to myself, and to my ticket. He shook his head, took out his own ticket, and examined it.  He looked at the seat number pasted above his head and looed at his ticket again.  Oops. He should have been in the aisle seat.

Huffing, he slid across the two seats, stood in the aisle—barely giving me enough room to slide past him—and waited while I struggled to sit as the train started to move.  I'd barely gotten into place when he slammed his body into the aisle seat, claimed the middle armrest, and sighed.  Oh, joy.  As evidenced by his breath, he'd had a highly spiced breakfast.

Once the train took off, Pietro Antonio dialed a number on his phone.

"Ciao," he said it loud enough that everyone between France and Greece could hear him.  "It's Pietro Antonio Balboni. I'm on my way to Rome."  He went on to explain that he was arriving at Roma Termini at 10:35 and that he would pick up a rental car and make his way to wherever he was going to meet the person on the other end.  The conversation continued for about 5 minutes, and he ended it with, "Ciao. Ciao. Ciao, ciao, ciao, ciao."

(Side note: Italians answer the phone by saying, "Pronto," and they usually end with,  "Ciao. Ciao. Ciao, ciao, ciao."  If they only get two of the "ciaos" out, they are not finished with the conversation. I've heard conversations go on five minutes after the first set of "Ciao. Ciaos." Another story for another day.)

Pietro Antonio shifted in his seat and again took over the armrest.  He plugged in his earphones and watched me "paint" on my iPad. He shifted again, and his leg moved over to my space. I shifted and roughly moved my leg. He got the message and moved his back into his own territory. I shut the iPad and stared out of the window, my left arm in my lap since he had control of the armrest we "shared."

"PRONTO."  Someone had obviously called him.  The conversation was much the same as the first—loud and animated—although it ended more quickly.  He dialed another number.

"Ciao. It's Pietro Antonio Balboni. I'm in Firenze on my way to Rome."  The train's only stop between Bologna and Rome was Florence, so he was updating the other person as to the status of the train. He again explained that he was arriving at Roma Termini, but that he was going to be late since the train was five minutes behind schedule. He again talked about getting the rental car, but apparently the person on the other end thought he should take the Metro.  They discussed the benefits of the Metro vs. a rental car.  During the entire 10-minute conversation, he moved in his seat, shuffled his feet and kept his arm on our shared armrest.  Believe it or not, he had yet a third conversation with someone about his arrival in Rome, the rental car, and the Metro.

From the train window

He got up to go to the restroom, and I claimed the armrest.  I hoped that he perhaps locked himself in the restroom when he didn't return for more than 10 minutes, but suddenly the coach door popped open, and he trounced down the aisle.  Oh, joy.

He slammed into the seat, sighed again (Garlic breath did not become him.), and tried to claim the armrest. I held my breath and kept my arm firmly in place. He pushed. I didn't budge. He pushed more. I didn't budge. He shifted and pushed, and I finally moved a "little" bit so that we could share.  He did one more shift and, because I had given in to be polite, shoved my elbow from the armrest and claimed it.

As we arrived at Rome Tiburtina (one of two major stations in Rome), I said, "Excuse me. This is my stop."

"You're getting off *now*?" he sighed.

"No, I said this was my station just for the hell of it,"  I thought. I rolled my eyes at him so he'd see my irritation and answered, "Yes, this is my stop."  He stood up but instead of moving out of the way, he stood in front of where my bag was and where I was heading.  "SCUUUUSAAAA MIIII."  I was loud and aggravated at that point.  Instead of sitting back in his seat, he moved to the side so I had to climb over him to leave. I'd had it.

As I tripped over him to get up the aisle, I accidentally stomped stepped on his foot and whacked him in the back with carry-on.  Game. Set. Match.


Tomorrow:  Friday fun continues with a ride on the regional train...a LONG ride.....

Planes, Trains, & Autobuses, Part I

“I am strong, but I am tired,,,”
― Brenda Joyce

The last few days have been a little stressful.  First, Mike and I traveled by train from Bologna to Rome, and from Rome to Sulmona.  Tuesday morning we left Sulmona and traveled by *bus*  back to Rome  where we caught a train to Milano. Yesterday (Wednesday) morning, we ended up on a bus that took us from Milano Centrale (train station) to Milano Malpensa (airport). Our eight-plus hour  Emirates flight from Milano landed at JFK where we caught a JetBlue flight to Las Vegas.  It exhausts me to think about all the mileage we covered during this week.

I didn't sleep well Sunday night for some reason, and Monday was miserable.  Combined with the heat and humidity, my lack of sleep left me frazzled and whipped Tuesday.  I wrote the blog, and if you read it, you might have noticed that my last sentence makes absolutely no sense. I was talking about the heat and the horrible sandwich with mayonnaise, and I ended the blog with:  Next time, I'm leaving him with the priests in the churches here. Maybe they can knock a little sense into him

I have no idea—NO IDEA— how that sentence got there. I do not remember thinking it, and I definitely do not remember writing it. I must have been sleepwriting.  After I apparently put the computer away (something else I don't remember), I slept a little better Monday night.  I was still quite tired when we got up yesterday (Wednesday) morning at 7:00 am Italy time.  That translates to 1:00 am New York time, midnight Nashville time, and 10:00 pm Tuesday evening Las Vegas time.

We arrived  home this morning at almost 2:00 am Las Vegas time.

"My body is telling me it's time for lunch," I said to Mike as we collapsed on the bed.  I don't think he heard me as he was already asleep.  It was a long 28 hours.

The good thing about riding those planes, trains, and buses this week is that I now have some great stories to tell you.

The bad thing is that it is now 7:30 pm Las Vegas time (and 4 am Italia time), and I am once again falling asleep as I type this.  To avoid relating stories  with nonsensical statements thrown in, I'm going to leave the blog at this point tonight.  Stay tuned tomorrow as I tell you about the trains to Sulmona.

Tomorrow.... I promise....

Good Grief! IT'S HOT

 “God, it was hot! Forget about frying an egg on the sidewalk; this kind of heat would fry an egg inside the chicken.”   ― Rachel Caine

The last few days have been hotter than anything again.  I live in a desert where temperatures triple digits during summer months, but it is the 80s-90s that ZAP the life out of me.    Sulmona was hot, humid, and miserable for the few days we were there. 

On Saturday, Peppe and Novelia took us to Campo di Giove, a wonderful little town in the mountains above Sulmona.  It took us only 20 minutes or so to get there, but the difference in temperature was wonderful and welcome.

We walked around town for a bit, and Novelia showed us where she lived for a time.  When she was a child, her family came to Campo di Giove every summer because her father worked there during the season.  We also drove a little farther into the forest.  Mike saw a tree that he wants us to use for Christmas (Above).  I'm not quite sure he'll get it into his luggage, but should you read anything about some nut trying to smuggle a tree out of Italy,  you'll know who it was.

 Yesterday we did laundry, and Mike decided to hang his clothes outside.  Since we didn't really have a line (Our flat was on the first floor.), he put the clothes rack outside the front door. Because it was so hot, everything—including my jeans— dried within an hour.  The reason this surprised me so much was that it was so humid.  The dry air in Las Vegas helps dry clothes quickly outside, but in Italy, it's so much more humid that I thought it might take.  Nope.


 Since we didn't have a car, we decided to walk into an area of town where we'd never been. We found some very nice places and some very decaying places.  We also found that we shouldn't have walked as long as we did because we were so hot, tired, and thirsty that we couldn't find a place to stop and have a drink.  Isn't that the case? You don't need something, but you see it everywhere.  You need something desperately, and you can't find it.  Irritating.

 We ended up stopping at this place called the "Sweet Time Cafe."  We've had coffee there numerous times over the years. so we stopped to get a panini and cold water.  The water was good, but the panini had ham, cheese, and a surprise ingredient.

"UGH!" I exclaimed to Mike. "This sandwich has mayonnaise on it."

"And not just a little," he added.

"I hate mayonnaise," I said.

"I like it, but not this much," he told me.  I knew that, but I was too busy trying to wipe that stuff off of my sandwich. 

"What good Italian uses mayonnaise?" I whined. "URP. UGH. BLECH."  I think he rolled his eyes at my drama.

We recreated a photo (above) we'd taken a few years ago when we were in Sweet Time.  They've added the red flames since our last visit, and there was some red plastic christmas tree thingy hanging on the wall, so we couldn't get it exactly right.  In addition, in the original we were sitting next to each other.  Because it was so darn hot, we sat across from each other.

"My shirt is wet," I told Mike.

"Mine, too," he replied.  "I'll stay here."  

"Good idea."  I was too hot to have anyone within 10 feet of me.

We got the photo done easily, and I took a number of shots.  When we were checking them out, Mike said, "Gosh we look angry."

"Look," I answered back, "I had enough "dew" on my skin to water a garden for a year.  Give me a break."

 Next time, I'm leaving him with the priests in the churches here. Maybe they can knock a little sense into him.  :-)

Home Again....

 "Sulmo mihi patria est.  (Sulmona is my country.) "   ~Ovid

The great Latin poet, Ovid, is a child of Sulmona, the largest town close to my grandparents' village, Pettorano sul Gizio. As I didn't study Latin, I really didn't study much about him, but I know that he wrote the 15-book (Yes, 15 BOOKS) epic narrative, Metamorphoses, as well as elegiac couplets and other poetry. He, Homer, and Virgil are considered contemporaries, not that you could prove it by me. The little bit I did study of their work was in college English classes, and on those nights, I didn't have a hard time falling asleep.  (OK.  Poet friends of mine. Forgive me. I was not a fan.  Will you still love me if I like Walt and Emily?  :-) )

At any rate, Mike and I had a LOOOONNNGGG day that started when some idiot who had to catch an early plane decided to use the stairs instead of the elevator to take her suitcases downstairs.  That's a story for another time as I've been up since about 3:30, and it's now 11:00.  I need sleep.

Let me just say that after five-plus hours on a train, we arrived in Sulmona this afternoon, and I'm happy to be home.  I'll show you a few photos of our apartment and town, and tomorrow I'll have a story about those wonderful hours we clacked along the tracks.

Living room, aka "The Grotto"

 We are staying in what Mike started calling the "Grotto" three years ago.  You may remember my sorella, Novelia, from my last two visits.  Her sister, Vittoria, has an apartment that Mike fell in love with two years ago.  It's in an old, old building in the historic center of Sulmona.  The grotto, or living room (above), is a few steps down from the main level. It's the oldest part of the building—13th century , maybe.

Kitchen

 Carlo Evangelista, Novelia's brother-in-law, refurbished the apartment, and Vittoria furnished it.  The furniture is antique, and all of the appliances are new.  Carlo kept the basic bones of the place and used tile that is similar to the original if he couldn't keep the original tile.

Dining area

 The one great thing about the apartment, other than how beautiful it is, is that it is ground floor, so there is no walking up a zillion stairs to get to it.

Shower

 It's within easy walking distance of almost everything in the historic center, as is Novelia's apartment where we stayed last time.

Bedroom (Note the old columns

Tomorrow is the Saturday market, which they hold in Piazza Garibaldi.  We're heading there first thing and will meet my cousin, Angela, for coffee.  After that, we'll meet Novelia's granddaughter, AnnaMaria.  I can't wait.

Piazza Garibaldi

Hair Today, Not Tomorrow

The shampoo bowls in Angela's shop

 "Oh, you *NEED* color now." ~ Angela

When I had my hair cut a few weeks ago, Angela told me not to wait too long to have the color done since my dark roots were getting ever darker and longer.  I had my appointment today, and she flicked her hands through my hair.

"Oh," she sighed, "you NEED color now.  I told you not to wait too long."  I nodded.  I know she told me that, but we've been busy.  I probably could have gone in earlier this week or late last week, but we never knew from one day to the next if we'd jump a train somewhere or not.

"But I'm here today," I smiled.  She nodded and went to fix whatever chemicals she was going to put on my head.  The lady whose hair Angela had just curled on tiny rollers stared at us.  She was sitting at the station next to me, and the hair dryer was blowing away. I could feel the heat a little, but thankfully the salon was "climatizzata"—air conditioned.  I love the hair dryers here.  They come down from the ceiling and are right at the stations.  Cool idea.

One of the stations in the shop...Note the hairdryer.

Angela came back with the magic formula and started putting it on my hair.  Let me just say that I really hate having this done, but as I've gotten older, my hair has gone from dishwater blonde to almost brown.  I could let it go, but I've gone from a few highlights to full highlights to full blonde over the years, and I'm afraid that having dark cornsilk strands of hair on my head would shock the life right out of me.

I like Angela. I really like Angela.  She is friendly and kind, and she really knows how to cut and color for one's facial structure and coloring.  And, she talks.  I hate going to hairdressers who cut, color, blow dry, etc. and basically say two words the entire time. Angela, thankfully, converses, but sometimes she talks so fast that I have to ask her to slow down.  "Piano.  Piano," I say to her, and she slows down and talks a little louder.  The volume I don't need, but I do need to really concentrate.

Angela setting someone's hair

 Since I'm not a regular, she always asks me the same questions— Do you have children?  How old is your son? Isn't Las Vegas hot? Where do you work?  Why do you come to Bologna?  Are you staying at the B&B? Is your husband retired? Does your husband speak Italian? Does it cost a lot to travel to Italy? Do you like gelato?

Do I like gelato? I have never figured out where that question came from.

Today she told me she is planning a surprise birthday party for her daughter who is turning 30 next week.  "It's a complete surprise," she said. "Don't say anything because I don't want her to find out."

"I won't say anything" I replied while I wondered how I could tell her since she lives in another town and has no idea who I am.  Of course, here I am telling you, so if you meet Angela's daughter, please do not tell her that her mom is having a surprise party for her.

Station #3

Angela owns and is the only person who works in her salon, and I asked her today what time she was going to close.

"At 20:00," she answered.  My eyes widened because I knew she had opened before 8:00 this morning. Actually, she opens before 8:00 every morning but Sunday and Monday. She noticed my shock and added, "I open early and close late everyday because people will walk by, see me, and come in to have their hair done. I have some appointments, but I also have a lot of people walk in."

People have walked in while I've been there, so I know what she means.  Last year when I was getting my hair cut, she had three people walk in. One just wanted a shampoo and blow dry.

Her prices, by the way, are a little higher than in other parts of the city, but they're a lot lower than what we pay in the States.  For example, I paid 28 euro ($31) for color today.  A cut is 18 euro.

On another note, we're off to Sulmona tomorrow for the festa in Pettorano this weekend.  It will be a long day of train rides....

Pasta, Part III or IV

Paccheri e astice (lobster)

“No dish in history has as many variations, colors, motifs, tastes, textures and subtleties as a dish of pasta.” ― Marc Vetri 

Unlike last year, I have not overdone it with the pasta.  While I was taking Italian classes here last year, you may recall, I went to lunch with school friends daily, and most of the places we frequented offered three choices: pasta, pizza, panini. I was, by the end of the second week, sick of all three.  This year, though, I've cooked in the apartment most of the time I've been here alone or with Mike.  We've stuck to simple lunches of cheese and fruit with a slice or two of prosciutto, and our dinners have been salad with a thin slice of chicken or some other meat on it.  That way, when we go out—which is not often at all—I can order a pizza or pasta dish.

Let me also add that I just can't deal with all the bread involved with sandwiches and pizza.  I like the pizzas here because the crusts are rather thin.  I don't like the bread of this region for the most part because it tends to be too smooth and without the texture of bread from Abruzzo.  That's just me.  Mike, on the other hand, likes the bread here. While the photo above is of cuipeta, the bread of Ferrara, most of the bread of the Emilia-Romagna region is similar in texture if not in shape.

Enough on bread.  Let me tell you about different pastas.

Paccheri e astice
Paccheri are very large tubes of pasta.  As with the smaller rigatoni, paccheri can be smooth or have ridges.  My favorite way to have them is with butter and sage, but Mike ordered Paccheri e astice (lobster) the other night.

"How is it?" I asked him since I'm not too willing to try anything with seafood.

"Messy," he replied. He expected to have chunks of lobster in the dish, and he wasn't wild about cracking the half lobster up while trying to eat the pasta.  I wasn't too thrilled to watch him do it, either.  "Do you want to try some?" he asked me.

"You enjoy," I replied and continued eating my scallopina.

Tortellini en brodo

Tortellini en brodo
Tortellini originated in the Emilia-Romagna (in Castelfranco Emilia) region of Italy around 1570 when someone was looking to make a filled pasta. In order to prevent the filling from falling out, he/she folded the square around his/her finger, and the rest is history.  Depending on who's making the tortellini, the filling may be of cheese (ricotta or parmesan or both), meat (prosciutto, mortadella, sausage, beef, or a combination), or a combination of meats and cheeses.

Tortellini is the number one culinary tradition of Bologna, and unlike the way we serve it in the States, the tradition here is to serve it in broth, which is how Nancy ordered hers (above).  The tortellini in the photo above are the average size.  I've seen them even smaller in fresh pasta shops.  One of these days, I'll have to try the small ones.

Tortelloni con burro e salvia

Tortelloni con burro e salvia
Tortelloni are the big brother of tortellini.  They are about twice the size but have the same shape as the smaller version. Cooks serve tortelloni with either a red sauce or, more likely, with a butter and sage sauce (above). The big difference is in the filling.  Instead of meat, the favored fillings for tortelloni are ricotta and spinach. 

That said, the various provinces of Emilia-Romagna have their own versions of tortelloni. In some areas, you might find porcini mushrooms or walnuts in the pasta. In Modena and Reggio Emilia, you might have tortelloni filled with pumpkin and crushed amaretto cookies.

I'll stick with the cheese, thank you.

Linguine con cozze e gamberini

Linguine con cozze e gamberini
I am not, as I constantly say, a fan of most seafood.  A number of people in both groups liked seafood and ordered pasta with a variety of seafood sauces.  The one above was, I believe, Charlene's. It was linguine which you probably know is a long pasta similar to fettuccine.  The big difference, other than the width (Linguine is not as wide.) is that it is more elliptical than flat.  Linguine is a very popular pasta to use with seafood.

Tagliatelle carbonara

Spaghetti Carbonara
The history of spaghetti carbonara is one that people argue about (Imagine that Italians would argue!), but the fact is who cares from whence it came?  Pasta carbonara is spaghetti mixed with bacon (prosciutto) and raw egg and topped with cheese.  The heat of the hot pasta cooks the egg and makes an absolutely wonderful "sauce". . . usually.

Mike ordered tagliatelle (a wide, flat pasta) carbonara (above) a few days after he arrived in Bologna, so when we were in Burano, I was craving it, so I ordered it myself (below).  Let me tell you that a well-made carbonara has a creamy texture and a nice, creamy color (above).  The cook gets that by by beating the eggs and tossing the mixture with the pasta.  He/She then tosses in the bacon and tops with cheese.

When the waiter put my spaghetti carbonara in front of me last week, I immediately knew I was going to have a problem.  In the first place, it was too yellow.  Note the difference in the color between mine and Mike's.  I believe, from the taste, that they used just egg yolks for the sauce.

Spaghetti carbonara

"They added onions and garlic to the sauce," I told Mike.  "This is not going to be good."  By that statement, I meant that I was going to get sick, not that the pasta was not going to be good.  That said, the pasta was not good because it was not carbonara. It was some weird eggy, oniony, garlicky pasta that ended up making me sick.

Gramigna con salccicia

Gramigna con salccicia
Gramigna is another of the pastas from the Emilia-Romagna region, and it's one of my favorite new pastas. A wild, curly, grass-shaped pasta, gramigna typically is a mix of plain and spinach pasta.  Because of the curly shape, it can wrap around anything you cook with it.  I usually see it here with sausage and a light cream sauce (above), although I've also had it with sausage and a red sauce.

When I say "light cream sauce," I really mean it is a light sauce.  The base is 2/3 c of white wine, 1/2 c pasta water, and 3-4 T of cream.  Italians use pasta water in a lot of their sauces.


Ok.  Who wants what??