A Chocolate Pilgrimage

Learning to Let Go

hhklady — Wed, 3 Jun 2015 19:54:00 GMT

When I first began to see the world, I thought a good day meant checking off every box on a packed itinerary. How did I learn to let go? Simply by watching Italians take their time.

I was with my husband and three boys standing on a stairway carved out of a sea cliff on the island of Capri, waiting for our turn to pile into a rowboat and flatten ourselves along the bottom in order to clear the narrow opening we could see swallowing squealing tourists into the Blue Grotto, a sea cavern that glows with an unearthly light. I was sighing and fidgeting, irritated by the passing time. We had taken a private raft there and I thought we would get priority boarding. Alas, Angelo took our tip and pointed to the line of people sagging along the cliff under the August sun. “Ci si va,” he grinned.

I wish I could say that my impatience stemmed from something romantic like being so close to a place visited by emperors of old. Or maybe the motherly desire not to have one of my children stumble off the narrow steps and plunge into the sea below. The truth is, though, that I was traveling with the American mentality of let’s go. That urgency bred into us that we have to get to the next place, the next thing as quickly as possible.

I watched, staggered, as one by one the boatmen formed a group. The few of them that were wearing shirts pulled them off and sluiced water over their bodies. Some tipped back, somersaulting over the sides entirely and came up from the water laughing, flinging water from their hair all over their friends. Cigarettes came out and were passed around. Many of them lay back in their boats, bronze torsos stark against the white paint, one arm flung over their eyes. I watched the smoke curl upwards, the languid music of their conversation drifting back and forth. They were in no hurry. It was break time and these hardworking men were relaxing into it. Our tips could wait.

It occurred to me that those men bobbing on the sea below us knew something about living. My craze to get somewhere else meant I was missing what was around me. A lemon tree had taken root and was hanging above us, scenting the air. My boys were waving at millionaires lounging on their yachts offshore. The light around us was so brilliant it was like God himself wanted to show off what he’d made.

This was the moment to be in. I just had to turn my face to the sun and take my time.

Photos: Torino

hhklady — Tue, 12 May 2015 23:28:00 GMT

Highlights from a hidden gem of a city

Bicerin

hhklady — Mon, 4 May 2015 03:25:56 GMT

Most people who veer away from churches, coliseums, and canals while touring Italy go to the city of Turin as a pilgrimage to see a holy relic. My own trip there was a pilgrimage of sorts, devoted to my love of chocolate, to taste something called a Bicerin.

I first saw this beverage on television during the 2006 Torino Olympics. I’m not much for sports, but I love the stories the networks do on local color when there is a lull in the action. The reporter was talking about a specialty found exclusively in the Piedmont area when camera panned in on a thick stream of hot chocolate being poured into a clear glass mug. Next came a layer of espresso and then a layer of cream. Some people are called to the summit of Everest or the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem. I needed to get to Turin.

It took nearly a decade, but I finally found myself on the 68 bus headed toward Stassi station where a funicular would take us up the mountain to the Superga Basilica. I was visiting my son during his semester abroad and he agreed that we should head to Torino with the theory that if you seek chocolate, good things are bound to happen. The concierge at our hotel assured us that the best Bicerin was to be found in the café of the basilica and that the views weren’t bad either.

On the funicular we found ourselves among locals, their musical conversation punctuated with laughter as they pointed out the sights. We emerged into truly alpine air, clear and chill. A short walk up a hill brought us to the an overlook where the Po River swirled through the city like a ribbon around a gift. We stood taking pictures until we were chilled through and ready for a hot drink.

The café was rustic, probably a storage room at one time. The man behind the counter took our order without a smile. He went about his work like an artist, each layer of the Bicerin poured in with an assured hand and finished with an intricate spider web pattern of chocolate on top. He placed them before us. “Va bene?” We grinned and took pictures while he pretended not to notice.

I can’t say which part of consuming it was the best. The first taste where coffee mixed with cream and just a hint of mocha, the blended middle sips, or scooping thick hot chocolate out with a spoon at the finish. Workman were smiling at our enjoyment, hands around their morning cappuccino. I had come to a church at the top of an Italian mountain to complete a pilgrimage and everything about it was worth the trip.