Cappuccino at Rome’s Pantheon

At the end of a long trip, and commute, I think back to how my morning started. On my recent Rome trip, the morning before my crew pick up at 10:30 am, I was drinking a cappuccino, leisurely gazing at the Roman Pantheon standing out in almost sheer solitude against a pale grey, early morning light. 

Being a Sunday morning in Roman Catholic ground zero, the “day of rest” (well, the morning at least) is exactly that. The hordes of tourists, the tour guides and groups, and the constant stream of college students, free of the bondages of yearly study and now on European vacation, were all still slumbering. I heard them outside my hotel window until well after 1:00 am. Our crew hotel is close to Pope John Paul II’s favorite gelateria, Giolitti, a marked spot on the tourist trail of Rome, especially in the wee early hours of the morning. Now, at 8:15 in the morning, I was sipping my cappuccino at a table adjacent to the majestic and iconic Roman architectural wonder, the Pantheon, in almost utter peace and quiet, in late May, a bona-fide slice of tourist time in the travel tourist season.  

I decided to sit at Di Rienzo, a café in the Piazza della Rotonda since 1952.  The customary black and white outfitted waiters were smiling this early Sunday morning, allowing for the extra flairs and nuances that make Rome the romantic city it is, before the decent of the masses, which within record time can drain anyone of their civility.  My waiter was charming and talkative, his blue eyes twinkling as he scattered rose petals over my table, petals floating down over my cappuccino, and homemade chocolate croissant (which turned out to be filled with Nutella).

A couple of times I saw heads peering out of lace curtains in the high windows above the piazza, windows being cracked open for some fresh, morning air. Two older Roman women walked in for their morning cappuccinos, leaving their equally older dog with crusted, tired eyes devotedly waiting for them at the entrance. A couple of bistro tables over from me were two priests drinking their cappuccinos deep in consultation, as well as an elderly British couple, fluent in Italian, the man drawing the scene in front of him seeing his subject in full view, his box of pastels splayed out on the table, with multi-colored dust on his fingers.

The day before, I crossed the piazza in front of the Pantheon in the afternoon.  I weaved my way through the shady African immigrants selling fake Prada and Gucci bags, the packs of students, and the hordes of camera toting tourists competing for the best angle to take their proof of visit photo in front of the gorgeous rotunda building. I am sure there were some honeymooner couples thrown in the mix somewhere.  But, this morning, it was when I was able to see the piazza, and the Pantheon, look Roman - majestic, an ancient architectural wonder, dominating. 

By 9:00 am, Rome the tourist city was awake and on the move; a large tour group following their leader with her ubiquitous flag on a pole, tourists with cameras, the pushy Gladiators grabbing the attention of tourists for highway robbery priced photos with them.  As the second wave now crested into the piazza, the priests, the artist and his wife, the dog walkers, the joggers, the men peeping out of their windows above the cafés and restaurants below quietly slipped away for the day.  

Les Tontons Flingueurs Bistro Crêperie - Montréal, Québec, Canada

The newest “in” place for the French crowd in Montreal to gather, restaurant Les Tontons Flingueurs on chemin de la Côte-des-Neiges, near Université de Montréal, attracts a sharp mix of French students, ex-pats and locals. When the French presidential primaries were held two weeks ago, the owners showed continuous coverage on the HD flat-screen television. Les Tontons Flingueurs became the place where Montreal’s French community rallied, and crowded in, to follow the election primary news. 

When co-owners Francois Harmant and Matheo Alary chose the name for their restaurant, it was borrowed from a 1963 black-and-white French film (loosely translated as “The Hired Guns’ Uncles”) that is a cult, film noir classic for the true French citizen, along the lines of Serge Gainsbourg - a little rebellious.  Opening a restaurant, it was a tip of the hat to one of the most famous scenes in the film, gangsters from opposing sides, in the kitchen of a restaurant, trying to nonchalantly drink together while keeping a wary eye on each other.  

Just as any speakeasy in the ’30’s was gangster fueled, decorated with red banquettes and mirrors, Les Tonton Flingueurs gives proper due to the image, with a Parisian bistro twist. No attention to detail has been overlooked: the small Eiffel Tower, an antique wall map of the heart of Paris, a Paris Metro map, and even a silver model airplane as a wink to the co-owner’s Air Canada flight attendant girlfriend.  In the men’s bathroom are various quotes from the movie, including the line “Touche pas au Grisbi, salope!”, which comes from the film’s kitchen conversation.

My French husband Thierry and I arrived for lunch late in the afternoon, post lunch crowd, and were able to do what the French do best: eat in a leisurely fashion.  The entree crêpes are made with buckwheat flour, giving each the authentic flavor and consistency of Breton crêpes, harking back to the crêpes found in restaurants such as Crêperie Ty Breiz in Paris, made to be drunk with the strong cider from Brittany. Despite the recommendation we try the crêpes, we passed on this visit, enticed by other intriguing offerings on the diverse menu. I ordered Le Gros Deguelulasse, a juicy, thick hamburger stuffed in the bun with ground beef, grilled onions, sautéed mushrooms, bacon, creamed cheese and fresh tomatoes.  With my Stella Artois beer, simply put, it was outstanding.  Thierry ordered Le Cul de Poule, a sandwich of white chicken, brie, honey, apples, lettuce, tomatoes, drizzled with a cider vinaigrette.  Fresh, and a perfect meld of flavors.  As the French would say, superb! 

Manchester, England: A Brilliant Diamond in the Rough

Premier shopping - check! World famous football clubs - check!  5-star hotels - check!  Michelin star restaurants - check again!  A major university, historical sites, a Saxon cathedral, cool bars, a hip and vibrant music scene - check!  The Crown Jewels - ah, no.  But Manchester, England has everything else.  This is a city that is London, on a smaller scale.  Manchester is the city that has it all.  

The Castlefield area lies over the old Roman ruins of what became the city of Manchester.  Manchester Cathedral, built in Saxon 700 AD before Norman William the Conqueror swept through England, anchors the city, flying the English flag high.  Even though it suffered heavy damage during the air raid blitzes of WWII, Manchester Cathedral has prevailed. The IRA unwittingly helped Manchester when it bombed the city center, carving out a chunk.  Manchester seized the moment for the better and became the phoenix lifting above its former industrial self, rising to become the vibrant and cosmopolitan city it is, with over 20 art galleries and various museums, high-end shopping with the likes of Harvey Nichols (which had at one of the make-up counters one of the most stunningly beautiful girls I have ever seen), Hermès, Links of London, and Vivienne Westwood, luxury hotels to cater to these shoppers (The Lowry, Malmaison), restaurants of every persuasion, and hot bars and cool clubs, often frequented by the footballers of Manchester City and Manchester United.  Even the National Football Museum is relocating to Manchester, to be housed in the Urbis Center.  And, an unparalleled music scene with two symphony orchestras, world-renowned artists playing concerts at the Cathedral, and hometown bands the Charlatans and Oasis.  Any night of the week, pick your pleasure from the cultural scene.  

Manchester is decidedly diverse in population with a Chinatown that has its own gate to its “city” and restaurants housed in old cotton warehouses that can equal most any in Hong Kong; the Manchester Jewish Museum as the gatekeeper of the still present Jewish community’s history since the Industrial Revolution; a vast gay populace that congregates in the now revitalized Canal area, the perfect place to be on sunny summer afternoons with its many outdoor cafés; and Curry Mile, a mile long area of south Manchester made up of Pakistani, Indian, Middle Eastern and Arab restaurants.  When I asked the hotel concierge which one he would recommend out of the mile long amount of choices, he looked at me as if I had 10 heads.  “Any!  Walk along and pick one with your nose,” was his answer.    

My flight attendant crew member Kris and I went to the outdoor pub at Sinclair’s Oyster House in Shambles Square in the city center, near the dominant ferris wheel.  With a couple of pints in hand, we sat outside at the tables.  An edgy young local with some missing teeth came up to us, holding his full beer, and with his even rougher looking buddy said, “dlibuiaosdu goiaudof elkgjos?”  Kris and I looked at each other, and looked back at him.  The buddy started laughing.  I said, “You have to speak a lot more slowly for us to understand your... accent.”  “Do-you-have-spare-change-I-could-have-for-my-next-pint?” I thought about that a second, looked at his full beer, and said, “If I give you my change, how am I going to pay for my next pint?”  This time they both laughed, and then talked to us for a solid 10 minutes.  Slowly. 

Urbis Center, future location of National Football Museum

Manchester is a city that has star quality, smoothing out is rough, industrial city feathers.  That is what makes it such a fantastic city.  Being in Manchester heralds back to a time when a place on the global map wasn’t tainted or altered by commercialism and tourism.  Manchester is a relatively small city in size, but powerful - it’s all there.  It’s dynamic, and you see it and feel it. These are people who have a fierce pride being a Mancunian, and rightfully so.

Now, I just have to figure out how to get tickets to one of those perpetually sold out City or Man U games...  

Working a Flight to Port-au-Prince, Haiti

Until last Wednesday, I had flown into Port-au-Prince, Haiti only one time in the last 23 years as an international flight attendant.  I remember the airport - and walking outside in stifling and suffocating heat and humidity along the tarmac perpendicular to the airplanes lined up and parallel to the building; I remember the vendor - her store was inside the airport, upstairs, and full of Haitian crafts, vanilla and liqueurs.  I remember how naively sweet the Haitian people were on the flight - many didn’t know how to flush the toilet or where to throw their wet hand towel, but many came dressed up for the flight in suits and hats, and always smiled at us working the flight.

The airport looks different now; my original vendor where I purchased a stunning black iron serving plate decorated with bright fruit designs in 1996 was gone, and the outside path to walk to the airplanes for boarding is now covered. Looking out at the tarmac, I envisioned the wingtip to wingtip lineup of military and commercial aircraft parked two years ago bringing in desperately needed supplies of all kinds. I went inside to buy the famous Haitian vanilla again. It was a different brand than before, but I was thrilled to see that even after the earthquake, some things are still available. The few vendors in the airport were eating plate lunches and the first vendor we stopped at had only a fish skeleton left atop her rice, with the head still attached. I purchased a bottle of Haitian Cremas, a rum based drink made with creamed coconut and either condensed or evaporated milk. It is served at holidays and on other special occasions, but I might just get it good and cold and drink some sooner as opposed to later since it is said to be like drinking a milkshake.

Our passengers on our flight were the same, for the most part.  Hats (one woman was wearing two new beautiful hats that still had the price tags on them), suits (both men and women), and still confusion over the lavatories’ buttons and design. A woman wore a silk gold and purple dress that was out of the realm of passenger attire on a Caribbean flight. She looked proud, and fierce, and beautiful. There is always one exception to the rule, and it was a 16 year old girl, who was not Haitian, and was part of a group of high school students who were on their way to New York City to perform in a musical concert.  She was texting on her iPhone after the aircraft door was closed.  When Alison, the flight attendant working on that side of the plane asked her to turn off her cell phone, the young girl - without looking up - dismissed Alison with a wave of her hand and said to her, “I’m busy.”  Lucky for her, Alison is a patient flight attendant.  Alison said to the young upstart, “Turn your phone off now, please, or you can sit in the terminal while we leave, and be busy there.”  She turned off her phone.  

The next day our crew flew to Paris, France. We had French speaking flight attendants on both flights, however, the speakers did not speak French on the Port-au-Prince trip.  No need to since the passengers speak Creole.  But, to go from the former French colony of Haiti, to the “motherland” of France within 24 hours, glaringly pointed out the striking differences in two countries that at one time, spoke the same language.

  

Bunny Mania in the Land of (Swiss) Chocolate - Zürich, Switzerland

In the run-up to Easter, it is a downright bonus to fly to a country known for its chocolates.  With so many choices on where to savor famed Swiss chocolates, on my layover in Zürich I took a three hour walk along both sides of the Limmat River to soak it all in, and be treated to over-the-top, spring window displays from a citizenship celebrating the end of another long, and cold, Swiss winter.

Everywhere I turned, there were bunnies, or chicks, or eggs, or flowers, or Swiss chocolates, many in shapes every size imaginable, in virtually every store, and, of course, in the Swiss chocolate houses of Sprüngli, Teuscher, and Steiner.  The windows, saturated with riotous floral beauty, speckled with chocolate bunnies throughout, made it a feast for the eyes as lush abundance stuffed the window fronts; these are the window displays that become the inspiration for wedding and party planners who spend hundreds of thousands of dollars to create a floral fantasyland for a bride.  I was confident my favorite confiserie in Zürich, Péclard, would have window displays that defied all expectations. Péclard’s offerings of fresh, mouth-watering pastries, handmade chocolates, fresh flowers, and bunnies, bunnies, bunnies were a visual treat and sensory delight as I sat outside drinking a cup of café au lait, slowly savoring their fresh chocolate truffles.    

All through the Old Town, bookstores, home decor stores, gourmet food and wine stores, restaurants - all managed to display something to resonate loud and clear Easter and the advent of spring weather, almost three weeks into the spring season.  Even along the famed financial powerhouse Bahnhofstrasse, storefronts had every variation and persuasion of Easter bunnies: floral, paper, metal, glittered papier-mâché, and, of course, chocolate. The entry to one of the discreet Swiss banks along Bahnhofstrasse had tall, thin, metal bunnies sitting upright, guarding the entrance like sentry soldiers at Ali Baba’s cave. At the department store Wenberg, one block from Hermès and Prada, the mannequin showcasing women’s clothes stood surrounded by bunnies, in matching colors, no less.  Along the Bahnhofstrasse, these are the stores where clients can buy not only the clothes shown, but all the bunny displays too, if they wanted. One of the jewelry stores had football sized gold eggs upright amongst the diamond necklaces.

The next morning leaving Zürich, more chances to buy Easter bunny chocolates were throughout the airport.  I stopped at Sprüngli. I couldn’t resist; I bought more.  

Verona, Italy - The City of Eternal Love

My other two flight attendant crew members and I had a long day ahead of us, spending the day in the Renaissance city of Verona.  We knew large cappuccino’s were the order top of the morning to jumpstart us in the right direction.  Fortunately, there is a café right across the street from our layover hotel.  My visual of a large Italian cappuccino definitely did not include an American sized Hummer in a cup, which was actually dwarfed by the sugar bowl.

We ponied up the 40€ for roundtrip train tickets leaving Milan’s Centrale station (glorious artwork in itself) for the roughly 90 minute train ride to Verona’s Porta Nuova station.  We knew we would see the highlights: the Duomo, the Roman arena, the market in the town’s square, Juliet’s - of William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet - famed balcony.  With all the tourists and young lovers, who either swoon and pine at the feet of Juliet’s balcony, professing undying love, or have their picture taken in the tiny courtyard below rubbing the right breast of Juliet’s bronzed statue for good luck, it seemed we were going to be the odd ones out being a trio of married co-workers, on the fringe of being tourists.  Nonetheless, how could we bypass visiting Verona’s cultural Renaissance icon?  A young girl named Juliet, in love with her Romeo in 1303, when life and love were very different.

If we didn’t know the address, we would have likely missed the entrance to the Juliet sanctum.  Upon entering the small tunnel, it was obvious this was a place visited by dedicated fans the world over as every name imaginable was colorfully written on the tunnel walls, one on top of another.  But one stood out among the crowd; I just had to have my picture taken with Guiseppe’s and Irina’s heart!  Turns out, that was a hit maker as after the three of us finished having fun taking pictures with their big, white heart, there was a line forming, fingers pointing with cameras in hand, tourists ready to be part of Guiseppe’s and Irina’s love story. 

Looking up at the balcony, there was an Asian student who was relishing his 15 minutes of fame as he preened and turned, glancing down at everyone in the tiny courtyard, everyone looking back at him, wondering when he would move it along.  These tourists wanted pictures of Juliet’s balcony - and they were going to wait him out.  While all the posturing was going on, we perused the store in the courtyard that sold the padlocks lovers buy to write their names on, and lock onto the gate that rests along the back courtyard wall.  Locked in love for eternity - isn’t young love great?

Deep in the Heart of São Paulo, Brazil

Flying in on approach into São Paulo, Brazil’s Guarulhos International Airport is like looking at a graphics chart on Bloomberg News.  Flat land for miles, and for miles tall, skinny skyscrapers punching upwards in staggering heights.  And, at the bottom, squeezed somewhere in between every possible inch, groupings of tiny red-tiled roofed houses, juxtaposed at all angles - all this before the dense concentration of skyscrapers.  In this vast sea of human dwellings, it becomes evident this is what it looks like to house 19 million citizens in South America’s largest metropolitan city, a city painfully devoid of greenery flying in on approach.

Our monolith crew bus - we could have fit three wide-body crews on this bus - pulled up to our hotel after an hour’s drive from the airport to the city’s center.  Almost every scene out of the bus window was a sterile view of cars zipping along ribbons and cross ribbons of highways.  Downtown São Paulo, and more skyscrapers.  Not as many, not as tall, but the distinct look of business.  Our crew hotel was located in the middle of the business district, with one small, but busy, outdoor café across the street, a couple of blocks off the busy Avenida Paulista, and Trianon Park.  The view from my high-rise hotel window was confirmation of why São Paulo is the engine of South America’s economy.  Sexy Rio de Janeiro and staid São Paulo.  Where’s the Brazilian passion in a city of steel and concrete? 

Our crew made reservations for dinner at one of São Paulo’s most famous restaurants, A Figueira Rubaiyat (“fig tree”, and an 11th century Persian poet, respectively).  Looking out the taxi window as we made our way down Rua Haddock Lobo in the Jardim Paulista area, life was finally revealing itself on a warm summer, Saturday night: locals walking their dogs, cafés and small restaurants spilling over with paulistanos (São Paulo’s citizens) out front, luxury stores like Louis Vuitton and Christian Dior indicating it was their customers who lived behind the beautiful, walled structures lining the residential area.

Stepping out of the taxi, looks can be deceiving as what seemed like a decent sized tree greeting us at the entrance of the restaurant was really a fruit tree of magnanimous proportions.  Swathed in a welcoming, warm, gold light, it is easy to breeze right into the open entrance and head straight for the bar area (where one of the restaurant’s rocket-fuel caipirinha’s is enough to knock you out flat) or the hostess desk, but that would be an injustice to such magnificence.  The fig tree quietly dominates from above all the patrons of the evening, feasting on butter soft steaks that are from the cattle raised on the owner’s private farm, with its sweeping extension of branches and leaves.  It was someone’s birthday this night, and the celebration under the fig tree was with balloons, song and a cake with sparklers for candles. The fig tree in its own way is a national treasure, and maybe a back door view to what the natural landscape of São Paulo was before millions of people took it over.

From the airplane, to the crew bus, to a city taxi driving deep into the heart of São Paulo, peeling back layers of South America’s largest city one segment at a time, in the midst of modern day structures of steel and concrete, survives a beautiful fig tree.