Cinque Terre (or: Rick Steves has a lot to answer for!)

July 10th is my roommate Wendy's birthday.  And if you're half-fish as she is, you want to be in water 24/7.  Enter the 36 hour trip to Cinque Terre.  The timing could definitely have been better - eight hours off a study trip and with a paper due the next week.  But a beach weekend is a beach weekend after all, and the four of us were excited to experience Cinque Terre for the first time, especially as we got the last quad room left in Vernazza.

Wendy got our car upgraded for free, Emily brought still-warm pastries, I loaded Google map directions on my iTouch, and we were off by 10:30am.  Apart from the snarl of traffic through Genova, we were making excellent time.  And then Google maps gave us some rather strange directions.  Next thing we knew, we were on a one lane road in Pignone (or Pinenut as Wendy dubbed it).  Many cheers were heard when we discovered the right road, only to descend into white-knuckled silence when the road to Vernazza became a one lane road hugging sheer cliff edges.  It was with great thanks when Wendy deposited Emily and me to wait with the bags at the pedestrian border to town, and took the car and Crystal back up to park.  Apparently, they had quite the adventure when the rental car bumper got attached to the cliff edge and decided to stay despite the car wanting to leave.  Emily and I were somewhat guiltily sipping strawberry smoothies instead at Il Pirate and learning that we had actually entered Rick Steves World instead of Vernazza.

Vernazza is a beautiful town spilling down the steep hillside to a sandy beach flanked by cliffs, clock towers and a piazza of jewel-toned, shuttered buildings.  It has a veritable rabbit-warren of twisting streets and quirky nooks and stairs.  It also holds the dubious distinction of being the first Italian town I've visited where I've heard not one word of Italian spoken.  Instead, the ears were bombarded with drawling American tones.  Every business had postcards and laminated reviews with Rick Steves emblazoned everywhere, and every business we entered with any affiliation with him whatsoever broadcast that fact repeatedly.  Even the owner of Egi Rooms where we stayed used Rick Steves' stamp of approval as a belligerent shield when we questioned the wisdom of the fan in our 40° room that didn't fit in any plug, and the barely more than twin bed to sleep two tall women who aren't romantically involved.



Enter Italian Cultural Observation #3.  'I can't promise anything' means a) I have no intention of lifting a finger to help you, or b) maybe I can find an adaptor for the fan, or maybe the gods will strike me down before I can accomplish this task.  Either way, you have no hope in hell of getting what you want anytime in the next millenium.  I have experienced this phenomenon many times since my arrival, but nowhere was it more frustrating than paying through the nose for seriously sub-par accommodation.

A swim in the plastic-wrapper filled water necessitated the first of many cold showers.  But at sunset, rejoined by our fearless adventurer Crystal, who had hiked to Monterosso and back in just over 90 minutes, we hike up along the Cinque Terre trail towards Corniglia for Wendy's clifftop birthday dinner.  The food was good, the views were gorgeous and we were greeted in the main piazza with a latin-dancing demonstration upon our return.

To say the night was uncomfortable is a mild understatement.  When the music finally stopped, the squawking birds started a rousing pre-dawn chorus.  I believe at one point Crystal tried to quell them with a string of choice Cantonese phrases and Chicago-accented English curses, but to no avail.

At just after eight am, Crystal, Emily and I set off on our Quattro Terre hike.  It took just under one very sweaty hour to make it to Corniglia, but the views made the climbs worth it.  This hike/walk is why people go to Cinque Terre.  But we fell in love with charming Corniglia.  There may be no easy beach access, but it's a tiny town filled with friendly people of all ages who didn't hesitate to engage us in Italian conversations.  It was the keen difference between being a tourist in a town that is vibrant and distinct on its own, and being in a town that relies on tourism to the point where it loses its own soul.

As an outsider, I can understand the vital importance of tourism in a small town's economy.  I can also understand Rick Steves' desire to highlight the beauty of this area.  But I also think he has sold out what makes this place so special.  His 'Europe through the back door' guides which aimed to highlight unique areas have become regular guidebooks that no longer carry the old title.  There's the TV series, the luggage sales and the tours.  Now, in high season, Vernazza is essentially transplanted America - the cliched tourists in black socks and sandals, clutching their Rick Steves guides to their sides like a bible.  By all means, go to Cinque Terre and hike through these gorgeous towns.  But if you can't go in the off-season, choose a town like Corniglia as your base if you want a more authentic Ligurian experience.

Wendy joined us in Corniglia for a leisurely coffee and then we strolled our way through Manarola and Riomaggiore, arriving just in time to catch the boat back to Vernazza and hit the road back to Bra.

Rice overload, Chicken Run and wearing green - Hazmat green, that is

Early.  Much too early.  My body still swaying to the rhythm of the alpine tractor, I stumbled onto the bus half asleep.  Two hours of driving through vibrant green rice fields later, we emerged, blinking, into the scorching sun.  It was the courtyard of a traditional brick working property - the wings of the building forming a solid square with huge archways out to the fields surrounding it.

A lively couple strode out to meet us.  He, a grandfatherly man whose ready smiles crinkled his dancing brown eyes up into tanned wrinkles.  She, the perfectly groomed 'younger' woman in designer sunglasses, Prada sandals and a caftan that managed to look both cool and elegant.  With effusive greetings, they poured us water and ushered us into one of the side wings to introduce us to the world of artisanal rice production.

It was a fascinating morning.  After years of standard rice production, this company decided to strike out in a new direction and age their carnaroli rice for up to seven years, to provide maximum quality.  Apparently most rice is sold just after it's harvested, and it's not at its best until at least one year.  At the same time, they discovered the germ actually contains the most nutrients, and rather than just detaching it as most producers do, they created technology to reincorporate those nutrients back into the rice.  Arguably, their rice is the best in the world for risotto - just ask the celebrity chefs worldwide who swear by it in their kitchens.

After a long question and answer period, we retired to the dining room for lunch, which strangely didn't feature any of their renowned risotto.  We began with a taste taste - their carnaroli rice, another producer's and parboiled rice.  The contrast in textures was interesting, but I have to admit it was the toasted hazelnut oil drizzled on top that made the experience.

Next up were two servings of rice salad - one made with their rice, the other with basmati.  This was quickly chased with cold rice beer - different, but very refreshing.  Our resident beer expert, Luca, beamed across the table: all was right in his world.  Last we were served two scoops of fior di latte gelato - one with carnaroli and the other with Japanese sticky rice mixed in.  Hmmm.  Lovely gelato, but with rice?  For the record, sticky rice melts more easily in your mouth.  You know, just in case you're staring blankly into your fridge one hot summer's night and need inspiration.


All the while, we had a constant commentary.  And here we have Italian Cultural Observation #2.  Marketing is a strange beast in Italy.  In North America, your product alone is practically perfect in every way, to steal a line from Mary Poppins.  Yet in Italy, apparently if you can't use fully naked women in your advertising (and surprisingly, you can for just about everything), you can just talk about how you prefer the other product in gelato.  Or shrug, and say it's all just a matter of taste.  Which it is, but this approach certainly gives rise to the expression about truth in advertising...

Suitably carb-loaded, we had a sweltering tour of the production facility, the high point literally being able to stand atop three stories of aging rice in their silos.  We also were able to tour the museum where they've recreated the rice workers' dormitories, complete with granny panties.


If we could've left at this point, the impressions of this visit would've been substantially more positive.  Instead, we trooped back into our classroom and spent two more hours hearing again and again all about their marketing strategy and package design.  We were hot, sweaty, dehydrated . . . and dropping asleep like flies.  While they generously sent us on our way with bags full of their product, enthusiasm had seriously waned.  Ladies and gentlemen, I'll let you know if the $15 per half pound coffee tin of rice for sale at Williams-Sonoma is truly risotto-worthy.  At a much later date.


Our next stop was a chicken company.  After a brief history of the company and their practices, we were faced with an alfresco spread of chicken salad, liver bites, liver tarts and wine.  It was while I was contemplating wine that Andy sauntered over and made the money comment that has prefaced these study trip entries: 'C'mon Heidi, drink up.  It's time to super-stage me.'  Well-put.  If gluttony truly is a sin, the average UNISG student is doomed on stage.

No rest for the wicked though.  We were quickly herded back onto the bus to visit one of the chicken farms.  Seeing as the chicks were only five days old, some protection from twenty-five rampaging, snap-happy grad students was in order.  Fortunately, Hazmat suits were ruled out in favour of hazmat boots.  Ah . . . nothing like wrapping feet in plastic in 35° weather.


I think it goes without saying that chicks are cute.  My favourites were the dozen who huddled by the door looking all fluffy and innocent . . . until they made a break for it.  Kate, I swear one of them was cautioning the others to creep in all quiet-like, like a fish...  No matter, their bid for freedom was denied by the farmer's son.

The real adventure started when the bus began making strange wheezing noises as our driver started it back up again for the long trek back to Bra.  After waving random tubes around and swearing creatively, our driver managed to get it working - sans A/C.  Ugh.

Thirty minutes of sweat bath later, it shuddered and died somewhere on the highway, the wrong side of Torino.  We piled out to watch Mr. Driver yet again pull rubber tubes and belts out of the engine . . . and then scratch his head trying to figure out how they fit back in.  Rae started an impromptu Lady Gaga dance party to keep spirits high for the hour we hung out, watching all the cars speed by.

What really helped though, was getting the bus going long enough to deposit us at the nearest Autogrill while we waited for the backup bus.  What do foodies do when the going gets tough?  Apparently, we dive into Pringles and drink cold beer on the road side.  Oh yeah, we're high class.

Another interesting ending to a study trip.  What will Burgundy in September bring?

Locked up, sweetened up and hauled up a mountain in a rickety tractor: Piemonte Stage Day 4

I watched the iron doors close behind me with a sense of mounting panic.  From being fingerprinted in Cuneo to starting the day behind bars at the Saluzzo jail, I should've been concerned.  And I was - concerned that I wouldn't get the beer samples.

You don't typically associate a jail and a renowned microbrewery, but that's exactly what's going on in Saluzzo.  Pausa Cafe is situated within the grounds of a fully-functioning, overcrowded prison, following a variety of traditional wild yeast and standard brewing methods.  Through a competitive application and evaluation process, several inmates are hired to learn the craft - with a guaranteed job upon release.  And the beer is very good and distinctive - even at 10am.  (Of course, no photographs were allowed in a government institution, so you'll just have to come visit me to sample some of the beer!)

Even though lunch was the only thing on our beer-logged minds, we still had another stop: Domori Chocolates.  One of the few chocolateries to source and roast their own cocoa beans, we embarked on a fascinating tour of the factory, clad yet again in disposable whites.  Each step of the process is thoughtful, and being able to taste dark chocolate straight off the line deliciously reinforced their commitment to quality.

Thirty minutes later, our bus lurched to a halt church-side, turning us out halfway up a steep hill.  Hmmmm... hiking in the heat of the day hadn't been on our study trip agenda.  Then gates swung open to reveal a stunning 800 year old castello.  A brief walk later found us on a shaded terrace overlooking the entire valley, champagne and fresh watermelon mimosas in hand.  Benvenuti a pranzo!  Sponsored by Domori and organized by a UNISG grad, the heaping vegetable buffet was clearly the mark of a woman experienced in Stage cuisine's serious lack of fibre.

Next came chocolates compliments of Domori and coffee.

But we were not yet finished.  A lecture on Domori's history and sustainability in a stone cave on the side of the hill was followed by a tasting of single origin chocolates.  We stumbled back to the bus in a state of chocolate-induced bliss.

At this point, most of us were dreading the drive to the goat cheese farm, little knowing that the best was yet to come.  Our bus, after getting lost for the 8th time that day, finally made its way up a tiny road to the cevrin di coazze farm.  We spent a little time meeting the cows, hanging out with the family, and seeing how they make and age their cow and goat cheeses. 

This is where our adventure began.  Back on the bus for another half hour, we spilled out at the start of a rocky alpine road.  Several of our crew sprinted for the 10 person van.  The rest of us opted for the cart attached to the back of a tractor.  It was bumpy.  There were so many low-lying branches, we became adept at yelling "BRANCH!" and everyone on the cart ducking in synchronicity.  The road was narrow, with sheer cliff drops off the side, and steep mountain passes ahead.  But the views were utterly breathtaking in every direction, and between our singalongs and constant laughter, the hour long trip up the alps passed quickly.

We arrived at the farm, carved into the hillside and were greeted by our van-travellers, and a goat stampede. 

Between the nosy goat,

the attention-whore donkey who nibbled at everyone's clothing and nosed into every photograph possible,

and the thieving cow who attempted to steal the handbags from the van, there was much entertainment value.

Add the warmest hosts imaginable, a table full of homemade Barbera, sausages, cured meats and goat cheese, and these gastronomes were in heaven.  Satiated and tired, we made our way back down the mountain in our little tractor cart three hours later than planned.

No one complained.    In fact, this might have to rate as my best day ever.

Hurry up and wait: Piemonte Stage Day 3

Day three started with the Piazza Giolitti Farmers' Market and a mezzo-kilo of fresh apricots.  With each morning starting progressively earlier, it was an 8:45 start.  By this time accustomed to the routine, we piled onto the bus and began the first long drive of the day.

Donning the oh-so-sexy standard white disposable coat, cap and plastic bags for our feet, we started off with a tour of the factory at Osella, a prominent Italian cheese company.  Our guide kindly led us through every step of the cheese-making process on a more industrial scale.  Osella is a unique entity - a family-run company, yet owned 51% by Kraft.  Despite the cringe we all struggled to hide at the idea of multi-national ownership, Osella appears to walk that knife edge of artisanal tradition and autonomy and reliance on outside capital quite well.  Approximately 40% of their production remains fresh cheese, and they use only local, Italian milk from within 60km.  Or as they put it, 5,000 cows work for them daily, helping create camembert, ricotta and robiola cream cheeses.  After an eye-opening look at their marketing strategies over the years, we were faced with the requisite study trip all-cheese lunch.  While their marketing may not have struck a chord, one dense smear of robiola herb cream cheese on crisp flatbread won me over.  I have to admit I bought some on the weekend.

A quick bus ride later found us at Cascina Gorgia, a lovely agritourismo outside of Orbassano.  Agritourismos are a wonderful Italian concept - rustic or elegant working farms where you pay to stay, explore, help out if you like, and eat what they produce.  Cascina Gorgia  had a beautiful traditional building of ivy-covered stone, shaded patio, butcher shop . . . and a veritable menagerie of chickens, furry-footed turkeys, rare goats, lambs, pigs, deer, ducks, turtles, cows and emus.  As well as a wall-jumping peacock, as we discovered when, squawking, it landed right beside us during a lazy reading break.  Our hosts generously brought us beer after our tour of the farm.  However, we then spent almost three unexpected hours outside in 34 degree temperatures waiting for the main event - the official announcement of the newest Slow Food Presidia:  Red Celery.

We were nodding off en masse during the press conference and speeches.  But of course, the first musical note of wine hitting the glass, and we were mobile.   The following antipasti and pasta courses all featured the rare red celery.  It was a unique concept: while the individual elements were all tasty, it's an interesting call to highlight a vegetable that isn't harvested until fall.  The dishes, including the chocolates, all relied on frozen celery.  It seemed a very un-Slow Food approach.  Despite the enjoyable meal and company, we were thrilled to get home early to commune with our fans.  Especially my roommate, whose love of braising was piqued by the potential prospect of freshly slaughtered emu in Fall.

Pizza, markets and paperwork: going AWOL on Piemonte Day 2

July 6th was a detour.  For five weeks now, I'd put from my mind the all-important permesso di soggiorno - the residency permit required of us by the Italian government.  We'd already experienced several frustrating steps, from getting our fiscal codes, to spending jet-lagged hours in the paperwork office, and then waiting in the post office to pay fees and send our information to Cuneo.

Tuesday was the appointment in Cuneo, the capital of our province, to get fingerprinted.  Nine of us were scheduled for the same day, and so had to miss day two of the study trip.  Surprisingly, it was a relatively smooth process, aided by the fact that Cuneo is close to the French border, and so I could communicate throughout the experience with ease.  We finished ahead of schedule, read: miracle, and it also was market day.  A leisurely lunch, a little shopping and a problematic train ride later, and we were back in Bra.  Let's just call it a peaceful break in the midst of typical stage chaos.  Even if we do have to go back to Cuneo in four months to pick it up...

"Super Stage Me" Piemonte Day 1

It was a sweet 9:30 start to the day.  Enough time to linger over morning coffee and pop into the much-loved local bakery for a pastry en route to Piazza Giolitti.  The Piemonte stage differs from all our others in that it is the only one where we get to go home every night and sleep in our own beds.  It doesn't matter how much we enjoy each other's company, having our own space every day is bliss.  Or as someone put it at 2am when we arrived home from Puglia, "I've never been so glad to see half the bus go!"

In any case, our first day was the "winey" one, according to our Super-Tutor Alessandra.  We began at the Negro Winery in Roero, a family run business since the 1670s.  Our guides trekked us up and down hills in the slowly burgeoning heat, and patiently answered our multitude of questions.  Seeing as we'd just finished a course on Organic Agriculture, there were plenty.  While the winery isn't certified organic, their practices are fascinating.  The soil is very sandy in Roero, and creating more structure is important to make wines with complexity.  So, they use red worms, originally imported from California, to work on the compost.  These worms only leave the piles when they are finished eating through the organic matter, but are extremely sensitive to antibiotics transferred by the creators of the manure.  If they're exposed to them, they die.  Interesting... 

On our hike up the hillside, a particular grove of trees was pointed out to us - the truffle hunters' land.  While technically owned by the winery, this patch is prime truffle land and is much sought after in October.  The winery keeps the property in perfect shape, and I believe gets some of the bounty.  Definitely a good place to return to in Fall... 

Our tour continued in the cantine and cellars.  Bottling was going on for one of their Arneis, and it was interesting to see the process.  While I thoroughly enjoyed bottling at Le Vieux Pin and La Stella last summer, we use a bottling truck there.  I moved back and forth between a few of the jobs, but the different steps - sanitizing bottles, filling, labeling and sealing - were all tucked in a loop and so I couldn't see the whole process in one fell swoop, like at Negro.  After communing with barrels and seeing the old and new methods of champenois, we were ushered upstairs by the owner for one of those fabulous meals we only experience on stage.  Wines were paired with each course, and the meal finished with rounds of grappa.

Needless to say, the entire bus napped all the way back to Pollenzo.  We groggily braced ourselves for our lecture in the cool of La Banca del Vino on our school campus to finish up our day.  After a general history of wine-making, we tasted some more wines, discussed our findings and toured the wine bank.  Meant to be a storage and educational facility for many unique and well-known wines, the cellar is a serious treasure-trove of Italian wines.  I clearly have many more varietals to discover this year!

The calm between the stages

While I wish there was epic news to report, the two weeks between the Puglia and Piemonte stages (pronounced in the french way, just so you can all sound affected) were quiet ones.  Sleep.  Read.  Ride my bike.  Write papers.  Buy a fan to combat the excessive heat of Bra.  Spend two hours in Big Store (Northern Italy's version of Walmart) just to be in air-conditioned comfort.  Get the news that our move-in date has been pushed to July 15th.  Write more papers.  Read more.  Sleep less. 

The only events of note were a lazy friday afternoon lunch at Osteria Bocca Buono, a last minute mad dash to Alba and Asti, and the ensuing Pigluck.

First things first.  One more paper and power-point presentation down, we were given a free afternoon.  Several of us girls decided to check out Osteria Bocca Buono, one of the "food spaces" presented during our Food Anthropology projects.  We settled in on the breezy terrace for the three course special, interrupted only by a local winemaker who stopped by our table, bringing us a bottle of his nebbiolo to try.  From the frittata "tacos" piled with fresh vegetables, to the pomodoro pasta with fresh cheese and finishing with a beautiful layered cream and fruit parfait, it was a relaxing end to a busy week.

After another paper & exam-filled week, Emily W and I hopped a train to Alba.  Joined by Rae, we spent a couple of hours wandering the massive Saturday morning market, buying apricots, tasting wine and staying in as much shade as possible. 

Next up was Asti.  Now, we had big intentions of wandering around and comparing Moscato.  Except the air-conditioning wasn't working on the bus.  Then we had "that guy" sit down next to us on the bus.  You know, the guy who reeks of B.O, invades your personal space, tells you random stories about his life interupting your conversations, tries to find out your home address and phone number, and doesn't get the hint.  We finally just got blunt.  By the time we oozed out onto the streets of Asti, we were in that apathetic state of dehydration, hunger and indecisiveness.  Finding the Tourist Information was no help either, as the woman there refused to give us restaurant recommendations claiming she was offering a public service and couldn't show preference to a restaurant. 

We used the map to find the nearest enoteca, burrowed our way to the back of the wine cellar, and settled in for a leisurely lunch of mussels, salad and a heavenly salsicca and barolo risotto.  Two hours later, we emerged into the even brighter sunlight feeling energized enough to sprint for the bus.  This time around, we had "the guy".  The super sweet guy who wants to practice his English, only joins us when invited, and recommends perfect beach towns and day trips. 

We arrived in Bra just in time to catch Pigluck.  Now, gastronomes beware - pigluck is a pork fiesta supplemented by potluck items.  It began the night before with Luca, Wendy and Crystal frantically preparing marinades for pork belly, ribs and various other cuts.  It culminated in the biggest pork gorge-fest on our former roommate's new terrace which overlooks the entire valley.  The wind came up, cooling everyone down, and twenty of us sprawled all over the cobblestones with heaping plates and glasses of wine.  Not a bad way to spend a Saturday.