Here Be Dragons: Restroom Adventures Abroad

During my recent history as a globe-trotter, I've learned a few universal truths:

1.) Dress conservatively in black and you can go anywhere.

2.) Food costs near tourist attractions are roughly the same amount as your mortgage. And about as tasty to chew on.

3.) Learning (and correctly using) a few words in the native language will almost always get you much better service.

But when it comes to restrooms, well on those fold-out guidebook tourist maps, this area should be marked "Here be dragons," because you just never know ...

Europe of course is the home of the "pee for a fee" public facility. Sometimes the toilet is an attraction in and of itself. Heck, I'd pay 2 euros just to see this fancy loo at the Louvre in Paris.

However, I did battle with my one-eyed monster for free last week in a restroom in a cute, modern, clean little sandwich shop in Padua. Yes, I am talking about the dreaded Turkish toilet. Toilet is a bit of a misnomer because, ummmmm, there wasn't one. (Sorry, I did not take a picture. I was just too freaked out.)

I had heard of these before. I had even glimpsed one in a century-old Parisian bistro, where it just seemed a quaint anachronism that I could laugh off while I held my business until I got back to my hotel room.

I'm three years older. I had been holding it all the train ride from Venice. My hotel was no where close. I wasn't laughing anymore.

A 50-year-old bladder will not be denied.

Just down the street from this restroom was the basilica of St. Anthony, patron saint of lost objects that must be found. I sent up a hasty prayer that he might find the obviously missing toilet for me. Either St. Anthony was answering legitimate requests that day, or being Italian, he was just laughing at the clueless American tourist.

My bladder was screeching at me to do something before it took action for me.

I won't fill you in on the gory details. It wasn't pretty. Let's just say for women, the process is not intuitive. And, surprisingly, while menus here are written in three languages there are no instructions (even those with universal symbols) to help you out. You are totally on your own. Sure wish I'd read this first.

Now I know why so many Italian women wear skirts; but I've got to wonder how they keep those expensive leather shoes so clean.

(And, yes, I did want to go back to my hotel room and curl up in the fetal position!)

The Islands: Murano, Burano and Torcello

Murano, Burano and Torcello may sound like an accounting firm in Little Italy, but they are actually islands in the lagoon surrounding Venice and tourist destinations all in themselves.

Murano, the most famous, is the site where the Venetian glass has been blown for centuries. The glassblowers' techniques are jealously guarded -- hence no photos.


However, you can view their handiwork -- ranging from jewelry and knick knacks up to enormous chandeliers in dozens of shops and studios all over the island.

I couldn't resist picking up a few knick-knacks for souvenirs. The blown-glass Christmas ornaments are lovely -- no two are alike. Blown-glass goblets are also wonderful -- if you want to pay to ship them back.

As for the rest of it .... ehhhhh, to tell the truth, it's really not my cup of tea. Well, except for the chandeliers -- I want one of those for every room of my house! I can appreciate the artistry that goes into making say a five-foot glass clown holding balloons or a life-size soaring glass eagle, but I can't get past the fact that these look like something the set designer for The Sopranos might snap up as opposed to something I want for my own art collection.

Venice's dirty little secret is that a lot of the "Murano glass" sold in the tourist's shops is imported from China. The glass blowers and shop keepers on Murano are very sensitive about it; many of them post signs saying they do not import. Rule of thumb: Murano glass will have a sticker saying it was made in Murano. Also Chinese glass is a lot cheaper.

Burano, a little farther out, is famous for its colorful fisherman's cottages and handmade lace. Like Murano, much of the lace that is sold here is imported from elsewhere. Still it's a pretty little place -- with lots of cats so you know it's right up my alley. The best restaurant on the island is named for a black cat -- just like my blog.

Torcello is the most distant, and oldest, of the settlements. Only about 15 families (and several cats) live here now mostly to run the restaurants and inns that cater to tourists, like this lovely little place.

I think the pomegranate tree got me; I love pomegranates and I've never seen them growing before. I was instantly seized with a desire to move here and run a rustic inn called La Casa alla Gatto Negro where I could eat pomegranates and risotto every day and have a lot of cats. When I laid this proposal out to the Recurring Gentleman Caller, his only comment was: "We have a lot of cats." Spoilsport.

Torcello's Basilica of Santa Maria Assunta (the oldest in Venice), museum and bell tower, featuring gorgeous Byzantine tile work, is a testament to the power Torcello once held. This is where Venice's history began until the population was decimated by malaria. It's pretty much a swamp.




Which brings me to the subject of bug spray: If you are coming to Venice, bring some. Even in the fairly cool temps of October, they are a problem, especially for skeeter-bait like me. I'm thinking of pencilling over my bites with eyeliner and calling them beauty marks as the Venetian beauties of yore did.

Dottore, Dottore ... A Day Trip to Padova

As lovely as Venice is, after a few days, you do feel the need to get away from all the tourists. Fortunately, the centrally located train station offers easy escape to nearby Verona, Vicenza or Padua (Padova to the Italians).

I live in a university town, and I have a fondness for the energy that comes from all that youth combined with knowledge. I chose to steal away to Padova, home to Italy's second oldest university (founded in 1222). Its faculty and alumni include Galileo, Copernicus, Casanova and Elena Lucrezia Cornaro Piscopia, the first woman ever awarded a Doctor of Philosophy degree.

The train ride is less than 30 minutes, yet Padova is a world away from Venice.

If you must still play tourist, you will want to visit the largest piazza in all of Italy as well as call on the remains of St. Ant'ny (that would be Anthony to those of you unfamiliar with New Orleans' yat parlance) which are interred in the truly gorgeous basilica that bears his name -- just don't follow the directions in Rick Steves' guide book. Those will take you to the basilica of Santa Giustina across the street.

If you're not Catholic, or if you are and missed catechism that day, this site explains what a basilica is, how it came to be called that and how it differs from a cathedral, church or shrine.

There are also the obligatory open-air markets (de rigeur for any Italian city) and some good shopping. If possible, the Italians are even more style conscious and chic than the French are!

Me, I could just spend all my time wandering under the city's famous colonnades, pausing now again to enjoy a spritz (club soda, white wine and Campari) or a cone of gelato (the best is at Grom's) while window-shopping, people watching and picking up fashion pointers.

But perhaps the most fun is getting in on the graduation hi-jinks in the square outside of the university. Students graduate on the day they defend their thesis so there is always a side-show, often several of them. The celebration is a two-parter. First, the grad dons a laurel wreath a la Julius Caesar for photos with proud family members who come dressed in Sunday best and bearing flowers for the occasion.

Then, as Rick Steves writes in his blog, "Grandma goes home," and the rite of public humiliation commences.

Dressed in an absurd costume -- Lady Gaga for example-- chosen by their so-called friends, the graduate is paraded in front of a large custom-made poster featuring a bawdy caricature of themselves and a poem about their misadventures, again written by their friends, which the honoree must read aloud to the assemblage taking a swig of alcohol every time they flub a word.

Then their friends douse them with water, shaving cream, honey or other assorted fluids/condiments, all the while serenading them with the standard graduation ditty: "Dottore, Dottore Dottore del busco de cul Vaffancul, Vaffancul!"

It sounds like a catchy little children's song -- but the lyrics are X-rated (quasi translation here. )Basically they are telling the newly minted doctor to do something anatomically impossible. It's all in good-natured fun; everyone has an excellent time.

And to think, all I had to do when I graduated from the University of Southern Mississippi was walk across a stage in a cap and gown. Somehow, now I feel cheated.

The House Where The Black Cat Lives Goes to Venice

Usually, I like to plan vacations down to the nth detail. Then I went to Venice. Here, you let your senses guide your feet. Get lost. Every bridge crosses over to a new experience. Every alley way leads to an unexpected treasure. Some of my favorite discoveries in Venice:

Tiny hole-in-the-wall taverns serving amazing Veneto wines by the glass and an assortment of hearty appetizers known as cichetti.

Open air markets (some of them on boats) selling the freshest produce and roasted chestnuts.

Pasticcherias with tempting window displays of panettone, jam-filled croissants, panino with fresh cheese and spicy salami.

Beautiful piazzas where neighbors visit on park benches while their children kick soccer balls or zip around on scooters.

Gelaterias serving scoops of the richest dark chocolate, buttery caramel and panna cotta ice cream.

A store that sells nothing but gorgeous hand-stamped paper as they have for hundreds of years -- in the very same location.

Exquisite centuries old architecture -- everywhere.

Tiny specialty shops where the proprieters magically find your heart's desire -- whether it's a pair of hand-stitched velvet gondolier's slippers, a soft wool stole, cashmere socks, gold-stamped silk velvet pouches or buttery-soft Easter-egg candy colored leather gloves, that fit like, well, a glove.

An impromptu street parade of exuberent school children, shopping housewives, bemused tourists and a chanting Hare Krishna or two.

Neighborhood church bells ringing in the hour, but not quite in synch, all over the city. Every hour is a celebration.

Strains of Vivaldi seeping out of evening concert halls into the chilly fall air.

Venetian cats. While my Italian may not be quite up to snuff, it's reassuring to know I still speak fluent kitty.

Pasta shops with every shape, color and size imaginable.

Meow-- I mean ciao-- for now.

Andrew Jackson Slept Here (And So Did I*)

"I'm sorry, but breakfast will be late this morning," the hostess at The Cottage Plantation informed us as we enjoyed the misty morning view from the main building's back veranda. "It's going to take a little while to get this skinned and into the pot."

"This" turned out to be a raccoon that got busted in the night while trying to steal the plantation cats' food, and now sat regarding us calmly, if inquisitively, from the confines of an animal trap.

Much to all the guests' (and the prisoner's) relief, 'coon really wasn't on the menu and we were all soon sitting down to a full Southern breakfast of eggs, bacon, grits, biscuits with homemade jam and fresh blueberries in the formal dining room, while the captive 'coon (who was actually damned good company) was transported to the surrounding woods and set free.

So began the 4th of July -- with life, liberty and pursuit of happiness -- just like our forefathers promised us.

The Cottage Plantation in St. Francisville, La., is not quite as old as our Nation, but comes close. The original four-room cottage was built in the last decade of the 18th century. And while George Washington never slept here, another future President, Andrew Jackson, did stay a while on his way back to Natchez from the Battle of 1812.

While the term "plantation" calls to mind a certain grandeur, The Cottage is really more of a really nice, if genteelly shabby, farmhouse. Unlike a neighboring plantation, Rosedown, which underwent a multi-million renovation some years ago, the historic sections of The Cottage wear a slightly worn mantle of benign neglect.

This was a little like staying in your grandmother's house, if your grandmother was a Southern aristocrat who lost her money long ago.

It was certainly a cut above my accommodations during my last trip to St. Francisville as a Girl Scout 40 years ago. Then, I had to cook my own dinner over a campfire and sleep in a screened tent with a bunch of other pre-pubescent girls. Here, I was served in-room coffee in demitasse cups with fresh-cut flowers on a silver tray.

When in St. Francisville, you tour a lot of plantation homes. In addition to The Cottage, I also caught tours at the much-fancier Rosedown, where I was charmed by a nest of resident baby barn swallows, and The Myrtles, America's most haunted house.

Other than that it was lots of good Louisiana cooking, a ferry ride across the False River to Cajun country and the scenic route home through fields and fields of sugar cane, eating boiled peanuts while smelling 4th of July barbecue roasting over dozens of roadside pits.

All in all, it was the perfect 4th.

*But not at the same time.

What I Did on My Summer Vacation (or my Life as a Beach Babe)

I am not a summer vacation person. Maybe that’s because I possess the uber-fair skin that requires liberal application of SPF 50 just to take out the garbage. Or because I grew up in a beach town. Sun, sand and Wal-Mart sized souvenir shops hold little fascination for me. You are far more likely to see me strolling along the Seine in Paris in October than along one of Florida 's Gulf beaches in July.

However, it had been a grueling few weeks at work. And I haven’t lived on a coastline in three years.

So when my recurring gentleman caller (RGC) suggested a weekend getaway, the thought of sugar white sands, turquoise water and romantic sunset dinners al fresco sounded good (as did sleeping late and hotel-provided housekeeping).

And because I’m all about the food, my taste-buds, deprived of good seafood for the past three years, salivated at the mere suggestion of real shrimp po-boys, creamy crab bisque, succulent bay scallops and stuffed flounder. The deal was sealed.

The hotel suite, overlooking the Gulf, was spacious and beautiful with a wrap-around balcony. After a romantic stroll along the beach, we toasted our getaway with chilled Chardonnay on the balcony.

I called all my girl friends to ensure they were suitably envious.

The waves were as blue and beautiful as the brochure promised – you don’t see surf like that on the Mississippi Coast. The beaches were pristine – maybe too pristine. It was a little like a Disney beach. I felt sorry for the kids combing for shells. There weren’t any.

So here’s what I did on my summer vacation:

I rode the waves, something I hadn’t done since I was in high school.

I caught up on my sleep.

I slathered on sunscreen and sat in the sun while critters crawled all over and around me. Not bugs. Zinc-nosed kids with sand pails. We were at one of those “family friendly” resorts where the families are not comprised of cats. I am so not a kid person.

I read Vogue on the beach. The fall fashion forecast is for pannier skirts, peplum suits and draped tuxedos. Several pina coladas on the balcony helped that news go down much better.

I went shopping during a summer afternoon thunderstorm.

I ate greasy pizza at a charmless dive sandwiched between an arcade and a go-cart track …

and soggy tacos under a poolside pavilion during a rainstorm ...

and salsa and chips. For breakfast. Lunch. And dinner.

Turns out the RGC is not the foodie I am. In fact he has to be forced to eat more than one meal a day. I felt like I was on a “cruise to lose” – without the ship.

Our "romantic" dinner al fresco turned out to be a 9 pm run to KFC's drive-thru, washed down with vintage champagne on the balcony while we watched “Batman” projected on the hotel next to ours, compliments of our family friendly resort.

No scallops. No flounder. But the company – and the champagne --were excellent . And I came home three pounds lighter – when’s the last time THAT happened on a vacation?

Best of all, I am home – a place full of cats and NO KIDS!

And I have the rest of the week off.

If I still have a craving for seafood (and I do), I can drive 80 miles to Biloxi and eat all I want while dabbling my toes in the surf-less brown waters of my home state. It may not be as pretty, but it does offer interesting beachcombing, especially since Katrina.

Sounds like the perfect summer vacation.