RIP, my delicious pesto :-(

I suffered a number of regretable losses on the long journey home. Part of the blame lies with airlines. Much of the blame lies with me, as I should have known better. And still more blame lies with those unfeeling French.

Oh, the airlines. I know they're going broke and everything, but these fees on checked baggage are really making the traveling experience that much more stressful. For domestic flights I'm almost used to the idea of $25 for a single checked bag and the resulting chaos that adds to the carry-on baggage stowage situation, where adults regularly bicker over whether that shopping bag really NEEDS to be stored overhead and who is entitled to what space. Let alone the elbowing that occurs once "Zone 4" is finally called and the late schmucks scramble to grab whatever bin space may remain. I'm almost used to it.

Fortunately, for international flights your first checked bag is free. Thank god, because it's no fun to travel 6+ time zones away for a short enough time to survive on the contents of a carry-on. For Italy, I managed to pack everything in a single large backpack, and packed an empty duffle for the inevitable purchases to come. A clever idea (not mine), which would have been that much more fantastic if I could check two bags coming home. Without paying an extra €55 ($73!!!) for the second checked bag, that is. (Thank god that wasn't the case when I returned from Prague! I went beyond the laws of physics packing for that one, and still ended up with two checked and two good-thing-no-one-noticed carry-on suitcases.) Anyway, the plan was to use the duffel as a full-sized carry on.

This brings me to part 2: my stupidity. I was too exhausted the last night before to thoroughly go through my bags and think through what was going in what. This Italy trip included carrying bags over long distances and a TON of stairs so I had distributed the weight as required, but in re-packing and moving my liquids to the main pack to-be-checked (thanks again, useless airline regulation), I remembered only to move that one remaining bottle of wine, and completely forgot about the smaller olive oil bottles, etc. purchased five days before.

So, when K and I arrived at FCO at 5am for our flights home to the US (on about 4 hr sleep), I checked one bag, fought an unfriendly airline lady over whether my carry-on duffel properly fit the length regulations for a carry on (she tried to make me throw things away or pay the extra €55/$73 for it), and moved on to the security baggage screening line. The screening people of course had technology on their side instead of just a sleepy brain, and found the rogue olive oil and limoncello bottles I'd bought as gifts right away. As my checked pack was already on its way to Baggage Land, my only options were

1. to go back through lines more ridiculous than you'd think possible at 5am to check in again AND pay €55/$73 for that second bag, or
2. to toss them.

Although downing the bottles of limoncello yumminess could have been a third possibility, I suppose, assuming they could then cart our drunk selves to the gate. :-) So, I sadly tossed the bottles, and moved on with my life.

We connected through Paris/ Charles de Gaulle, which veteran travelers will know requires going through security once again for any terminal changes (and I've never had the fortune of avoiding a terminal change at CDG). This time though, I figured I was in the clear. Italian guards had already cleared my bag right? And there must be some Mussolini-era thoroughness to them, yes? All good.

And then the French guardsfound my jar of pesto.

I should say that this pesto, purchased in Cinque Terre which is also the birthplace of pesto, is amazing. I love pesto anyway, but the folks in Cinque Terre opened my eyes to new fanastic possibilities. Thick, garlicy, flavorful pesto in anything you can think of (including pesto lasagna, by the way, which was FANTASTIC!). And I had bought a jar of my very own. And then stupidly left it packed in my carry-on.

The Italians were forgiving... it was pesto after all! The French, though... were not. Apparently the little green jar of crushed basil, pinenuts, garlic, and cheese deliciousness constituted a partially-liquid security concern to CDG. I can just imagine the headlines now: Rogue Pesto Bomber Creates Culinary Chaos in Terminal E. So, they made me throw away my beloved pesto. This time, downing it right there in the security line felt like a far less desperate option. But I kept my dignity and instead watched in great sadness as it was carted away.

And the French claim to appreciate food. HA!!

Ah well, cé la vie... :-(

Fool me once...

Drats, foiled again!

First off, I admit that the title of this post was just a little bit of an excuse to call attention to one of my favorite Bush quotes.

With that out of the way, I really did have a point here. :-P And that point, it turns out, is mushrooms. If you know me, you know that I do my best to be open-minded with food... but mushrooms and olives are where I draw the line. Or at least try to.


Back in August 2004, I was just beginning to start traveling (my only previous lone trip to Europe was Prague in March 2004 -- who knew I'd be starting a trend?). I was in Geneva, Switzerland for a conference, and went out to dinner with some colleagues. The menu was in French, as that's what most of the western Swiss speak. I asked the girls I was eating with to translate the menu, and I chose what I wanted. When it came time to order, I wanted to be self-sufficient so I ordered for myself, in French. And it turns out, I remembered the wrong thing! ;-) I was one line off. The meal arrived, and I was expecting something like pasta... and it's a bowl of mushrooms! only mushrooms! in some sort of gravy sauce! I was horrified. I ate nearly half of it, then finally confessed to the other girls what I did and one was nice and traded the rest of her meal with me. ;)

Of course, after that experience I was certain to memorize the word for mushroom -- champignon in french -- and since then, for each country I visit, I make sure to learn the word for mushroom so I can avoid it. A foolproof plan.

And THEN -- Germany foiled my plan!

A few nights ago in Germany, I again went to the restaurant below my hotel to get a pizza for dinner. Straightforward, yes? After almost two weeks in town, I knew a few German food words, and "Champignon" (just like the French work) was early on my word-spotting list. Based on my confidence, combined with cheapness, I ordered one of the more simple pizzas from the menu. Pizza arrives... COVERED with mushrooms!!

For all you fellow mushroom haters who may choose to wander Germany in the future: it turns out there's a second, secret word! "Pilzen". I felt tricked :) I saw that word on the menu (with the words for cheese, tomato, and pepperoni which I knew), but thought of the beer ("Pils" in German, "Pilsner" in Czech") and figured it was just a spice of some sort.

Again, I sucked it up and ate the mushrooms. Ay de mi. :-P

Something in the water...

Is there anymore much more distasteful than, thirsting for water, you take a big swig and find it salty and carbonated? For whatever reason, the Europeans appear to love this stuff. Not only is tap water almost never served (though in countries like German it is quite safe), but the bottled water is by a large majority (and definitely by default) carbonated. Perhaps one can develop a taste for it... but I don't find it at all refreshing, and what's more, find myself burping far more that usual. :-) How ladylike, eh?

You've got to love a country where finding a glass of uncarbonated water is on level with acquiring a PhD, and yet you can buy a "glass" of Jägermeister in the university cafeteria!!

To review, Jägermeister is

• (German translation) anise- and herb-flavored digestive
• (English translation) a huge post-frat party hangover mechanism

Party on. :-) But don't drink the water.

my italian thanksgiving

Ah yes, staying abroad for the holidays... just like the pilgrims used to do!

It's kind of surreal being here over Thanksgiving, if for no reason than things are just... normal here. Normal work, normal schedule, normal portion sizes. :-) And did you ever consider how few national cuisines really focus on turkey? Guess it makes sense.

Anyway, for my Thanksgiving, I ended up at an Italian restaurant in Germany with my Czech host professor, a Dutch masters student, a prospective faculty member from Spain currently finishing her postdoc in the Netherlands, and a couple of native Germans. Of course, with that mix, I did have a few very American-feeling moments when the topic switched to politics!

Bring on the stuffing, boys.

Gastronomical Travelings

I haven't been a great German tourist so far, I admit. Not that there have been a lot of tourist options so far in Saarbrucken (but this weekend I may check out Munich or Cologne, stay tuned...), but more than that, I'm a little ashamed to admit that I haven't had a single beer, German or otherwise, and the three nights I've been here I went out for Thai buffet, followed by pizza in the "italian" place connected to my hotel, and last night I grabbed some kabab from a carry-out stand on the street. I have had "German" food for lunch in tha cafeteria each day, but I'm not sure that's really a shining example of German cuisine. Hey, at least I haven't stooped to McDonalds!

Well, we'll see how my Thanksgiving meal turns out. :-)